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25 as. 



Copyright, 1885, 
by Harpkr & Brothrrs 


December 25 , 1885 


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per Year, 52 Numbers, $15 


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Tffl BiClELOE mi OF HEWFOETI 

a NoDtl 


By MRS. J. HARCOURT-EOE 


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NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

1885 


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THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

A MAN in the prime of life, of good birth, fair means, great in- 
tellectual power; in good health, in the height of popularity; courted, 
flattered, run after; accessible to all, both rich and poor; ever doing 
good ; full of vigor, life, earnestness, and courage ; head aTnd chief 
and sole governor in his parish ; ruling every one, yet at the same 
time beloved, admired, respected, praised, and considered by every 
one. Such was the Rev. Theophilus Manley, Vicar of Newforth. 

Under the burning rays of a tropical sun, in an arid desert country, 
a worn, solitary, travel-stained man, his eyes bright with feverish fire, 
his hands bearing the marks of toil ; without food, save a cake or two 
made by the filthy hands of black men from the coarsest grain ; with- 
out friends, without a single companion ; without clothes, save those 
he stood up In; without money, without reputation, without hope, 
without faith. A man forsaken by all, and, it seemed, forsaken by 
his God. With a mind wrought up to such a pitch of unnatural 
activity, through bodily weakness, that thought coursed through his 
brain with a merciless rush; his ideas dwelling ceaselessly on the 
various branches of theoretical philosophy — more especially on the 
highest, treating of the essences of things eternal; on sciences, on 
art, on poetry, but finding pleasure in none of them; with a rich and 
gorgeous imagination, distorted and strained; with a soul full of 
pain and grief ; with a body a stranger to any physical comfort ; with- 
out consolation in the past, without prospect in the future Such 
was the Rev. Theophilus Manley, ex-Vicar of Newforth. 

And after? 


CHAPTER I. 

MR. MANLEY’S ARRIVAL. 

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” These words were spoken by^he 
Rev. Theophilus Manley, M.A., as he stood in front of the parish 
church of Newforth, in company with Mr. Leslie, the Vicar’s warden. 

1 


2 


THE liACHELOK VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


‘‘You may well say, * Oli dear,’ ” replied Mr. Leslie; “ the church 
is a disgrace to the town.” 

“The fabric of the building is well enough, and the site is beauti- 
ful. How came the chureh in sueh a state of neglect and decay?” 

“The late vicar was eighty years old, long past his work. No 
one saw to anything, no one cared about anything.” 

“But did not you— the congregation— care?” 

Mr. Leslie smiled. 

‘ ‘ My dear sir, my experience has told me that where the root is 
dead, the branches will die. An earnest vicar makes an earnest con- 
gregation. Did we care? Speaking frankly, I don’t think we did' 
care, but it is still possible that we may.” 

Mr. Manley looked around him. The churchyard was choked 
with weeds and rubbish, piles of timber were suffered to rest against 
the base of the tower, the walls were dirty and discolored. 

Inside, matters were worse. There was not even common cleanli- 
ness. Mould and mildew broke out in large patches; most of the 
stained-glass windows had been broken and replaeed by squares of 
common glass ; the really handsome carving over the chancel was de- 
faeed, the pews were getting rotten, the church furniture was de- 
plorable. 

“This is shocking,” said Mr. Manley, as he, with a quick glance, 
took in the various details. 

“Well,” replied Mr. Leslie, cheerfully, “ I suppose it is. But, 
after all, it is so precious little that any of us are in church that does 
it matter very much?” 

Mr. Manley did not enunciate his views on this point; he smiled 
and said, “I feel on the subject, only perhaps more strongly, as a 
colonel of a regiment would do if he saw his men on parade in rags 
and tatters, or the captain of a ship were his vessel dismantled and 
dirty, or as you perhaps might feel, Mr. Leslie, if the law courts 
were a living scandal ; but I cannot expect you to look at these mat- 
ters with my eyes” — he paused, and looked straight at the warden 
— “at present.” 

“Or ever,” returned Mr. Leslie, amicably; “and I cannot help 
saying that if you accept this living and come to Newforth, I pity 
you, sir— that is to say, for the first year, at least.” 

“ Is nothing going on in the parish?” 

“There is nothing; I cannot say these things are in my line, and 
that personally I care much. ” 

The prospective Vicar looked at Mr. Leslie— a tall, handsome, en- 
ergetic-looking young man. “ I will make that man care soon,” he 
thought. 

“ After all,” continued the warden, “ as I said about the church, 
does it matter much ? Granted that we don’t meddle with the amount 
of beer and tobacco consumed by the working man, that we don’t 
regulate his literature and pry into his sanitary arrangements and 
order his amusements— I dare say he is very much obliged to us for 
not interfering. If I choose to give a beggar sixpence, I may, and 
enjoy the feeling that I am doing a good action. Here we have no 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


3 


charity organization to tell me I am committing a crime by so acting, 
and to sift all oiir characters for us before we can get a bit of bread 
to eat. Why,” said Mr, Leslie, energetically, “should not a poor 
woman require assistance when in deep poverty because, perhaps ten 
years ago, her husband stole three pennyworth of apples?” 

“You are entering upon a very wide subject,” said Mr, Manley, 
laughing; “and as I do not happen to entirely agree with you we 
will not discuss it at present. Suppose we go and see the vicarage 
instead.” 

The gate on the south side, that nearest to the vicarage, was locked. 
Mr. Manley tried to open it in vain. 

“The key is lost,” said Mr, Leslie; “has been lost for the last 
twelvemonth. We don’t trouble ourselves to repair damages; we are 
such a happy-go-lucky parish, you know.” 

Mr. Manley put his hand on the top, and vaulted over. Mr. Leslie 
followed his example. 

“I suppose that wasn’t very clerical,” said Mr. Manley; “ but no 
one saw me, and it will save time.” 

Mr. Leslie laughed; he thought he should like a man who could 
jump over a gate. 

“ What a beautiful view of the harbor and shipping you have here !” 
said Mr, Manley; “ the church, being on a hill, must be quite a sea- 
mark.” 

“ It would be, if the spire were built,” returned Mr. Leslie. 

“ Why d6 you not build it?” 

“ We build it — ice do anything? My dear sir, we are stagnant, 
we are dead ; there is only one thing we glory in, and that is the 
dignity of, our dulness.” 

“ How long has the church been built?” 

“ Fifty years.” 

“ That spire shall be built before two years are over,” thought Mr. 
Manley. 

“You would like to see the vicarage before making up your mind,” 
said Mr. Leslie, leading the way to a moderate-sized but not uncom- 
fortable house, standing in a small garden. From the back windows 
an extensive view of the sea was obtainable. 

The furniture left- by the late vicar was plain but neat, the carpets 
were somewhat worn, but everything was in fairly good order. 

“I suppose I can take all this at a valuation,” said Mr. Manley. 

“ Is it good enough?” 

The prospective Vicar laughed. “ It is quite good enough for a 
bachelor, and I have no idea of taking a wife.” 

“ We do not want for young ladies here.” 

“ I like young ladies, ’’said Mr. Manley, with a smile; “but I don’t 
want a wife.” 

“ ‘ Iliggledy piggledy, needles and pins, 

When a man’s married his trouble begins,’ ” 

quoted Mr. Leslie, with a glance to see if the other were scandalized. 
But, on the contrary, Mr. Manley did not appear at all scandalized. 
He laughed. 


4 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


He was a slight man, rather over middle height, with a well-built, 
athletic figure. He had a well-shaped, close-cropped head, dark hair, 
clean-shaven cheeks. His broad, square brow, straight, fine nose, and 
delicately cut, though firm, mouth conveyed an impression of great 
intellectual power, combined with the keenest quick-witted common- 
sense. He was thirty-five years of age, but in the distance did not 
look more than twenty-five, and on a near view not more than 
twenty- eight. 

“ I have made up my mind to accept the living,” he said, at length ; 
“and I should now like to ask why every one spends less time in 
this than in other churches?” 

“To begin with,” replied Mr. Leslie, “ we lacked opportunity. I 
dare say, in these Newman-Pusey church-revival days, it won’t be be- 
lieved that this church was open only on Sunday morning, and once 
in a long way in the evening. When Mr. Smith first came he used 
to give out, ‘ There will be no service this evening, as I have a cold 
in my head, or an ache in my little finger. ’ ” 

Here he saw Mr. Manley looking at him with some gravity. He 
continued somewhat hurriedly, 

“I really can’t remember his exact words, you know; it was so 
long ago. But gradually all excuses were given up, and it became 
an acknowledged fact that the church was only open once on the 
Sunday and never on the weekdays, unless some great man wanted 
his baby christened. Nothing so infra dig. as having your child 
christened unless you have the place to yourself obtains in New- 
forth! Oh dear, no!” 

“If lack of opportunity were the only reason — ” 

Mr. Manley was here interrupted by the warden, 

“I am afraid not the only reason.” 

“ That reason,” continued the prospective Vicar, cheerfully, “can 
soon be done away with. Is the church well attended on Sunday 
morning?” 

“Well attended!” echoed Mr. Leslie, who seemed to take a certain 
pride in the dismalness of the situation. “ The church holds twelve 
hundred people, and we think ourselves lucky if four hundred 
come.” 

“ Where do the people go?” 

“Anywhere, or more probably nowhere. Some few to chapel, 
still fewer to more distant churches.” 

“We will get them back. It should be the pride of the parish 
church that her people do not care to go elsewhere.” 

Mr. Leslie shrugged his shoulders. 

“lam afraid you are going to undertake a herculean task.” 

“ I am quite aware there will be difficulties, but we can only try 
to surmount them. You must help me, Mr. Leslie ; my church- 
warden is my right-hand man.” 

“I?” repeated Mr. Leslie, scarcely believing his ears ; “I assure 
you I am no use whatever; I do nothing, or next door to it.” 

“We will make you of use,” said Mr. Manley, laughing. 

“You can’t make me do what goes against the grain, sir.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


5 


“By no means ; we shall go mth the grain.” 

“I doubt it,” returned the church- warden ; “you had better look 
out for a better man than I. ” 

“ How do the people amuse themselves ?” 

“ Do you mean by the people the working man ?” 

“I do,” replied Mr. Manley. 

“Where have you come from, sir?” asked Mr. Leslie, almost in a 
tone of injury. “Did you ever know the British workman amuse 
himself otherwise than in the public-house?” 

“I certainly have, ’’replied Mr. Manley, briskly. 

“ Then I have not. Beer, skittles, a fight, and a summons — these, 
1 take it, are the British workman’s amusements. I am quite content 
that they should be. I am not a philanthropist, and if I were I should 
not move. For every time a gentleman laughs a working man ‘ on 
the spree’ will laugh twenty times; ergo, he is the happier of the 
two, or if he isn’t he ought to be. He doesn’t care if I play billiards, 
and I don’t care if he gets drunk — so long as he is quiet.” 

A look of gravity again overspread Mr. Manley’s countenance, 
which the church-warden quickly perceived. 

“Notwithstanding my heathen sentiments, Mr. Manley, will you 
dine with me to-day and be introduced to my wife? AVe might take 
a walk in the interval, as it is her ‘ At Home ’ day, and I am sure you 
don’t want to meet all the ladies that are now drinking tea.” 

“ Many thanks! I shall be most happy to dine with you another 
day,” said the Vicar, his bright look restored; “but I must now re- 
turn to town. Good-bye, and I shall hope to see you again soon.” 

Mr. Leslie’s house stood in its own grounds, some five minutes’ 
walk from the church. He was a man of means and taste; both 
garden and house were in perfect order. He stood in the hall, and 
listened to the clatter of teacups and clash of tongues, A tall, hand- 
some, dark-eyed girl caught sight of him through the open drawing- 
room door, and joined him. 

“I am rejoiced to see you, Mr. Leslie,” she said, energetically. 

“I am equally pleased to see you. Miss Hatton; so glad you’re 
glad, and all that sort of thing, you know ; but w'hat is my special at- 
traction at this present moment?” 

“ Do you see those people in there?” 

“ Yes — how on earth am I to shake hands with them all?” 

“ Oh, never mind that; they have been here more than two hours, 
and during the whole of that time there has been one everlasting sub- 
ject of conversation. I’m so glad to see you, because I think there 
may now be a reasonable prospect of its coming to an end.” 

“ AVhat is the subject? — scandal of some sort, I presume.” 

“ Not a word; it would have been infinitely more amusing to have 
listened to something ill-natured (we are so fond of our best friends, 
you know), than to have heard one continuous stream of praise.” 

“Praise of whom?” 

“ The subject has been the supposed — and no doubt invented — 
perfections of the proposed Vicar, Air. Manley. I quite dislike him 
in consequence, before I have even seen him.” 


6 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ I wouldn’t be the proposed Vicar for something. But I will tell 
you a great secret. He has accepted the living, and is coming here 
as soon as possible.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I was with him at the church this afternoon.” 

“Were you?” exclaimed Miss Hatton, her eyes sparkling. “ Oh, 
what is he like?” 

“I declare, you are as bad as the rest; I thought you Avere sick of 
the subject. He was— well, he was like a clergyman.” 

“ Don’t be so provoking. Is he handsome, and does he look nice 
and clever?” 

Mr. Leslie laughed. 

“ I am not going to make my information too cheap. I shall for- 
cibly change the subject. Now, doesn’t our drawing-room look ex- 
actly like a china-shop? It always reminds me of a hall surrounded 
with kitchen dressers, which are covered with crockery ware. My 
wife will have plates and cups in every imaginable place, even above 
the portiere.” 

“ It is such beautiful china,” returned Miss Hatton ; “ I always ad- 
mire your drawing-room so much, and it is so well-proportioned.” 

“It is well-proportibned enough, I grant you, and it costs me a 
good sum of money every year, in order that I may live up to it, 
furnish it with its requisite plants, and so on. ” 

As he spoke, a vision of the dirty, neglected church rose before 
him; somehow his conscience accused him. He thought of Mr. 
Manley’s words, “ We will make you of use,” but he shook his head 
over them. 

His wife looked up, and beckoned to him. 

‘ ‘ I must go now. Miss Hatton, alas ! but I will tell you the news 
soon.” 

He wended his way slowly through the tea-drinking groups, and 
stood beside Mrs. Leslie, a pretty woman of some eight-and-tAventy, 
with dark curly hair. 

“ Hoav late you are, Frank!” she said, in a low voice. 

“ It is a most extraordinary thing, my dear; but in spite of the at- 
tractions of these halls of dazzling light on your ‘ At Home ’ da5's, 
those are the days in which I invariably find myself late. Can’t ac- 
count for it anyhow! No wonder you are glad to see me. What a 
bore it must be for you women to have no men to talk with. I Avon- 
der an air of resigned boredom doesn’t pervade the whole assem- 
blage.” 

“ You are too bad, Mr. Leslie,” said Miss Ethel Hatton, an exceed- 
ingly pretty, soft-mannered girl, bearing no resemblance to her sister. 
“ Wc have all been very happy Avithout any gentleman.” 

“Am I too bad? Then I will make my peace. I hear you have 
been talking all the afternoon about the neAV Vicar.” 

“ That is quite true. We hear he is charming, and, besides being 
a good man, has brilliant abilities; that he took every prize at his 
school, and every kind of honor at Cambridge; that he was Senior 
Wrangler; and, in short, I don’t know Avhat he Avasn’t.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 7 

“ All I can say is,” returned Mr. Leslie, “that he did not talk one 
word of Latin or Greek to me, and — he jumped over a gate.” 

“What an extraordinary thing for him to do! Tell us something 
more.” 

“Don’t you think I ought to make my information public?” A 
curious expression of mischief overspread his face as he continued, 

“ ‘ There is a tide iu the affairs of lueo, which, taken at the flood — ’ ” 

Mrs. Leslie interrupted him. “We have heard that quotation be- 
fore, Frank!” 

“ Without a doubt, but not in connection with myself. I now see 
my way to becoming famous through the medium of another, by the 
reflected light of the new Vicar.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ You shall see.” 

lie procured a high footstool and stood on it, then rapped with a 
teaspoon on the table to secure the attention of his audience. 

“Ladies,” he began, solemnly, “unaccustomed as I am to public 
speaking, yet the importance of my subject must be my excuse for 
thus exposing my feeble oratorical efforts to your trenchant, your 
brilliant, criticism.” 

“ What are you about, Frank?” said Mrs. Leslie. 

“Ladies,” he continued, “prepare yourselves for one of the most 
startling announcements it is in my power to make. Although we 
in this town of Newforth boast of a large population, of scores of 
gay villas, of numberless bright roads and streets, of a mayor and 
corporation' of an esplanade and sea-wall, of a brass band (which, in 
parenthesis, some people have the bad taste to wish further), of a 
parish church— and such a parish church! — of several chapels, of 
some eminent lawyers, of whom I am the greatest — (in fact, were it 
not for my natural modesty, I might describe myself as the glory of 
Newforth)— by the way, where was I?” 

“ Where were you, indeed!” said Mrs. Leslie. 

“ Ladies,” he continued, “time would fail me were I to enumerate 
all the attractions of Newforth; but one advantage we have not had 
of late— we have not had a Vicar. Having now opened the subject 
with, I trust, becoming gravity, I will now make the announcement 
which will, I trust, fill your minds with wonder and delight. Pre- 
pare yourselves, calm yourselves, I beg. I have seen the new Vicar; 
further, he is an unmarried man !” 

A burst of laughter followed this speech, not so much at its sub- 
stance as at the ludicrous manner in which it was delivered. 

“Tell us some more,” said Miss Hatton, who had re-entered the 
room long since. 

“With pleasure,” he said; “the statenient is so amazing that I 
beg to assure you I am speaking truthfully— he said he liked young 
ladies!” and Mr. Leslie sat down. 

“ Do talk a little sense, Frank,” said his wife; “did you like him 
or Jiot?” 

“I liked him very much.” 


8 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Aud what do you think of him as a Vicar?” 

“I think he seems a very good sort of fellow; but I Icmw that he 
'is all there.” 


CHAPTER II. 

CRITICISM. 

The congregation, more numerous than usual — but, alas! the 
scanty congregation — had mostly assembled in unwonted good time 
in the churclj^ard, for Mr. Manley was to take his first duty that 
morning. 

There were Admiral and Mrs. Hatton with their daughters; Miss 
Hatton brilliant in gray, with dashes of crimson ; Miss Ethel fresh as 
a daisy, in white — it was a bright June morning and the sun w'as 
Shining hotly — and talking to them were Mr. and Mrs. Leslie. 

“ I really think we ought to go in now,” said Mrs. Hatton; “it is 
almost eleven.” 

“I wonder if Mr. Manley will be punctual,” said Mrs. Leslie; 
“don’t you remember poor old Mr. Smith used to saunter down the 
road at a quarter past eleven, stopping to talk to every one he met.” 

“And making those of us who were punctual in a state of exas- 
peration past description,” said Miss Hatton. 

“ We will give the new Vicar the benefit of the doubt, and go in,” 
said Mr. Leslie. “Not but what the old system had its advantages, 
because we could be, aud nearly always were, late. I have a dim 
sort of idea that the church-wardens ought to be in the vestry before 
the service and after; what do you say. Admiral Hatton?” turning to 
his co-church-warden. 

“I know nothing at all about it,” answered the people’s representa- 
tive — a fine, hale old man, with white hair and a jolly-looking, though 
withal somewhat fiery, countenance. 

“I really wish some one would tell me my duties, if I have any 
duties,” said Mr. Leslie. “In poor old Smith’s time every one did 
that which was right in his own eyes, but I am somewhat afraid that 
this man will keep us up to the mark. I hate to be kept up to the 
mark. Ah, there are the Allens;” as a stout lady of a rather forbid- 
ding countenance entered the church, accompanied by her son and 
daughter. “ She loves the chief places in the synagogues, and has 
accordingly signified her intention of taking the front pew. They 
have only lately come to Newforth. She is a rich widow, whose 
husband lived in Chili.” 

“ We really must go in,” said Mrs. Hatton. 

They had barely taken their seats when the clock struck eleven, 
and, punctually to a moment, the new Vicar came forth from the 
vestry alone, for a surpliced choir was a thing unknown in New- 
forth. 

^ His quick glance took in at once the rows of expectant and inquis- 
itive faces. In that one brief survey he could have told within 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


9 


twenty how many people were in the church. He shorteujed the 
service considerably. By twenty minutes to one the congregation 
were dismissed. 

“I must say this is a great improvement on Mr. Smith,” said Mr. 
Leslie ; “he used to go droning on till long past one ; but with this 
corresponding advantage — we never listened to him; our minds were 
in a state of beautiful repose. I’m afraid we sha’n’t be able to help 
listening to this man. How did you like him, Miss Ethel?” 

The girl’s face lit up. 

“I thought it was admirable,” she answered, simply. 

“What, the sermon? There were no grand words in it that I 
heard.” 

“ Indeed, no; but it was so quiet, so peaceable, so earnest, so plain, 
so logically constructed— and, above all, so heartfelt.” 

Mr. Leslie felt inclined to laugh — the thoughtful look on her face 
deterred him. 

“Yes, it was certainly logical; he had something to say, and he 
sa.d it — which is more than many men know how to do. There is 
nothing easier, with a certain amount of education, than to string to- 
gether a number of high-sounding phrases, which, taken collectively, 
mean nothing; and to preach what may pass muster, with people 
whose culture stops short at a certain point, as a most eloquent ser- 
mon. I could do it myself. ” 

Ethel laughed. 

“Yes, you may well laugh at the idea of my preaching, but I 
couldn’t give you a sermon such as we have just had. I dare say 
Mr. Manley took a vast deal longer to prepare it than if he had talked 
about the Astounding Realities of the Transcendental. And I should 
say no man knew better than he exactly how much, or rather, how 
little, such phrases are worth.” 

“He has a very beautiful voice, ’’said Mrs. Leslie. 

“Don’t you think it’s a little melancholy?” asked Miss Hatton, 
joining them. 

“ Oh, no,” returned Mrs. Leslie, warmly; “it is so full of feeling. 
It is the voice of a thorough gentleman. There are two points 
which no half-and-half man ever has, a really refined voice and good 
hands — by which I do not mean white hands.” 

“ Can’t we change the subject?” said Mr. Leslie; “we have had a 
very good dose of ‘ Vicar ’ as it is. Let us take a turn on the clitfs.” 

He led the way across the green to the cliffs rising from the beach. 
On the pier below the townspeople were walking to and fro. 

“This is very nice,” remarked Mr. Leslie, looking at them and the 
shipping; “it gives me quite a benevolent feeling, as if I were a pub- 
lic benefactor, without the bother.” 

“How much better it is to shorten the service,” said Mrs. Leslie; 
“one can attend far better, and one doesn’t find one’s self wishing it 
were over. I hope the Vicar will be equally judicious with the other 
services.” 

“Vicar again!” replied her husband; “I shall call out ‘Taboo’ 
whenever his name is mentioned, for I really can’t stand much more 


10 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


of it. , Here is Campbell,” as a young naval lieutenant approached. 
“Now, Miss Hatton, I will leave you, and with sorrow resign my 
post in his favor.” 


CHAPTER III. 

MISS ETHEL. 

It was a magnificent morning when Mr. Manley left his house at 
six o’clock, for his usual swim from the rocks round the point. The 
sun shone in his eyes as he leaped from stone to stone; the blue sea 
was washing and eddying at his feet, filling the pools, and murmur- 
ing a delicious little soothing melody. Out seawards two fishing- 
boats were making their way to the next village on the coast. 

His swim over, the Vicar threw stones into the water and sang in 
the very joy of his heart. How could he be otherwise than joyful 
on such a morning? He walked slowly along the beach towards a 
little fishing-cove; the houses, numbering some five or six in all, 
were built on the beach. The fishermen were mending their nets, 
their boats drawn up on the shingle, crab and lobster pots were scat- 
tered about on the sands. A little girl of some five or six years of 
age had pulled her father’s red cap over her head and eyes, and was 
stumbling about among the pebbles some hundreds of yards awa}- 
from the houses. Suddenly she fell, striking her knee sharply against 
a rock. A loud cry ensued. 

“Hullo!” said Mr. Manley, cheerfully, and taking her in his arms 
as he spoke, “what is the matter?” 

The child stopped crying out of sheer surprise, and pointed to 
her knee. The Vicar sat down on a rock, saying, “ Let me examine 
the wound — I will be the doctor.” 

A few scratches appeared on the surface of the skin. He took a 
small surgical case from his pocket, and cutting a strip of plaster 
placed it on the little girl’s knee, telling her a wonderful story the 
while about a giant. 

“I think,” he continued after a little while, “that we now require 
a cake plaster. Do you know what that is?” 

The child shook her head. 

“Cake plasters are the most wonderful healers of children’s 
wounds and sorrows, but unfortunately I do not carry them in my 
pockets. I wonder if a penny would have the same effect.” 

“Now, does it hurt you to walk, dear?” he asked, kindly. 

The little girl took a step or two, but screwed up her brown face 
with an expression of pain. 

“ Don’t try,” said the Vicar, lifting her again in his arms; “ I will 
carry you home. Whose little girl are you?” 

“There is father,” she replied, pointing to one of the fishermen. 

“I will take you to him. Now, you have been a brave little girl, 
and this penny is yours.” 

The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she pushed back her sun- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


11 


bonnet and gave the Vicar a hearty kiss, which he returned in quieter 
fashion. The fisherman, a bronzed, stalwart man of forty, left his 
nets and advanced to meet them. 

“Thank you kindly, sir, for picking up my little maid; she’s a 
heavy weight to carry.’' 

“I will recruit myself by sitting down and having a little chat 
with you, if you will continue your work,” said the Vicar, with a 
smile, taking a seat as he spoke on a boat turned upside down. A 
chip of wood lay beside him; he took it up and began to carve a 
grotesque figure with his penknife for the child’s amusement. 

“ You have chosen a very pretty spot to live in,” he said ; “ I have 
never been so far before. Those clilfs at the back of your houses 
would make a charming sketch. I must come and pay you all a visit 
soon.” 

“Glad to see ’ee, sir,” returned the man, heartily; “we don’t see 
many folk here; this is a lonesome little cove.” 

“What distance are you from Newforth?” 

' “ Not above two miles, sir; but we are out of the way, like. Many 
people don’t know there i^ a house here.” 

“ Indeed! I suppose these rocks shut you in. And how do you 
fare in the winter?” 

The fisherman shook his head. 

“It is lonesome, sir, as I said; the Newforth folk don’t know 
whether we be alive or dead.” 

‘ ‘ If my company will be appreciated, I shall be most happy to be- 
stow some of it on you; I think I must make a point of coming out 
here once a week.” As he spoke, he made a note in his pocket-book. 

“You are out early to-day, sir.” 

‘ ‘ I am always out early in fine weather. I have been swimming 
round that buoy,” pointing to a black object some half-mile out. 

“Lor’l” said the fisherman, in amazement, “I never knew any one 
like you could swim.” 

“ Do you know who I am?” 

“I suppose you be a minister of some sort; I thought they was al- 
ways at book-learnin’, or jawin’ at people.” 

“lam the Vicar of Newforth,” rejoined Mr. Manley, with a smile; 
“and I trust when I come to see you I shall do very little in the 
‘ jawin’ ’ line.” 

“No offence, sir; no, I don’t think you will. Any little ones of your 
own, sir?” as the child ran up and perched herself on the Vicar’s knee. 

“No; I am not a married man, but I am very fond of little ones.” 

lie put a few queries as to the number and names of the inhabi- 
tants of the cove. 

“And whose is that cottage which stands farther back than all 
the others, beneath the shelter of the cliff?” 

“That belongs to Mrs. Stevens; she is a respectable body. Her 
husband was drownded last year, and she has no children.” 

“ Poor soul! she must indeed be lonely.” 

“ She lets lodgings in the summer; her rooms are small, but they 
are neat and clean.” 


12 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Without knowing why he did so, the Vicar made a note of this 
information also, little thinking of the sad fruit it would one day 
bear. Four men came down to the sands, dragging a boat with them, 
and calling to the father of the child. Mr. Manley spoke a few 
kindly words to them, and went his way. 

Ascending the cliff by a circuitous path he turned his back on the 
sea, and looked down on Newforth. He could see the streets, the 
villas, the tall buildings, the chapels, and, above all, he could see the 
poor, neglected, parish church, which he was now closely connected 
with, and which he had made up his mind to love. 

The buoyancy of his spirits left him. As he looked at the town a 
grave and solemn mood came over him, for he was one of those rare 
clergymen whose whole heart and mind and soul are in their work. 
A great dread came over him as he thought of the thousands of peo- 
ple living so near, and of the neglect and indifference which had 
eaten into their very soul. But there were far worse than neglect . 
and indifference, there were active agencies for evil. How now to 
counteract these influences? What was he, single-handed, to do? 

He remembered the night before his ordination, when the respon- 
sibilities he was going to take on himself had wellnigh appalled him, 
when the thought that he might personally have to answer for the 
souls of those committed to his charge had all but caused him to re- 
fuse to take these vows on himself at all. But never since he had 
been ordained had these responsibilities seemed to press on him so 
heavily as now : he was about to undertake a fight, as it were, against 
overwhelming numbers. But being a man of indomitable will and 
great courage, and possessing, moreover, the strongest faith in the per- 
sonal providence and direction of God,his heart did not fail him now. 

Although he had been so short a time in Newforth he had al- 
ready perceived that his congregation did not pull together. To 
use the words of one of the society papers, with regard to a similar 
congregation, “Every one thought that nearly every one else was a 
^person,’ and although they might be «ompelled to associate with 
one another in a better world, they wished to see as little of one 
another as possible on the road.” 

Long and earnestly did the Vicar revolve in his own mind how 
the existing state of things was to be altered, for — oh, most rare 
clergyman!— he had a strong idea that brotherly kindness was a 
virtue enjoined not only on the rich, in connection with the poor, 
but was also one that ought to be practised among the well-to-do 
themselves; and that, when it did not exist, it was tlie parson’s duty 
to call it into being. That he must get his people not only to sym- 
pathize with, but to work with him, he knew full well, being quite 
aware that in all matters, temporal as well as spiritual, the pie in 
which one has had a finger has a totally different flavor to that made 
by a strange cook ; and although he did not deal at the Stores he had 
a great respect for the virtues of co-operation ! 

“ If I preach to them, except in church, they will think it a bore, 
and turn the cold shoulder; whatever I do I must not weary them,” 
he said, thoughtfully. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


13 


And then a plan arose in his mind; forthwith he decided on his 
line of action. As he stood musing, the clock struck eight, 

“Breakfast-time!” he exclaimed, and began to descend the cut- 
ting in the cliJBf. A young lady. Miss Ethel Hatton, was coming 
down the road at some little distance, dressed in a fresh print gown 
and large straw hat; on her arm she carried a basket containing 
moss and ferns. He scrutinized her face attentively as she sauntered 
along, unconscious of observation. There was a certain freedom of 
walk and grace of movement about her which attracted his attention, 
but it was her face he most admired. It was not her fair complexion, 
her sunny brown hair, her bright, golden-brown eyes, that took 
his fancy so much as her expression, and the sweetness of her 
mouth. 

“ That is a good face, a very good face,” he thought, for he was 
a keen observer of physiognomy; “it is a most conscientious face.” 

She passed on slowly, when, suddenly looking up, she saw the 
Vicar, who raised his hat. She blushed crimson as she bowed to 
him. A donkey-cart was coming up the road, the boy in charge 
was lagging behind. Ethel’s thoughts were abstracted; the donkey 
took a mean advantage of the circumstance, and swerved violently 
to the left. The cart struck her, and knocked her down. 

In a moment the Vicar was by her side. He raised her, and 
ascertaining that there was no great damage done, turned to the lad; 
but he, thinking an awkward inquiry imminent, had taken to his 
heels, and the donkey was jogging slowly on in the middle of the 
road. 

“Are you much hurt?” asked Mr. Manley, seeing how white the 
girl’s face had become. 

“No,” she returned, with a somewhat unsteady smile. “I am 
a good deal shaken, that is all.” 

“You are the second damsel in distress that I have succored 
this morning,” he said, with a laugh; “but I am afraid it is no 
use offering you a penny or a cake plaster, I believe you are more 
frightened than hurt, although the shock of your fall could not have 
been inconsiderable. Take my arm.”. 

She did so, and he saw she was trembling violently. 

“The vicarage is much nearer than your house,” he said, kindly; 
“you must go in there and rest. I will put you under my cook’s 
care, while I go and tell your mother.” 

“ Thank you,” she replied, “a few minutes’ rest is all I want.” 

“ And what took you out so early, if I may ask, Miss Ethel?” 

“I often gather ferns before breakfast to ornament the table; we 
have plenty of flowers in our garden, but no ferns.” 

“Perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Jonson, my cook, to favor me 
similarly,” said the Vicar, with a slight twinkle in his eye. “At 
present I believe she looks on all table decoration of that sort as 
‘messes;’ personally, I have a great love for flowers.” 

He opened the vicarage door with his latch-key, and led the way 
into the dining-room. A very white cloth was on the table, but the 
china and appointments were of the plainest. He rang the bell. The 


14 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWPORT!!. 


cook appeared, bearing a dish of ham and eggs, followed by Sarah 
Jane, the housemaid, with the urn and coffee-pot. 

“ I did not ring for breakfast, Mrs. Jonson,” said the Vicar to the 
astonished cook, “but to ask you to take care of this young lady for 
a short time, while I go out. She has been knocked down by a cart. ” 

“La, miss! No bones broke, I hope,” said Mrs. Jonson, in some 
alarm, hastily casting in her mind whether in that case she would 
have to be nursed in the house, and turn everything there upside- 
down. 

Ethel laughed. 

“There is really nothing the matter with me; I am so much better 
that I am sure I can get home now. ” 

“ You will oblige me by remaining a little while,” said the Vicar, 
with much decision in his voice. “ I will return with your father or 
sister in a few minutes, and meantime you cannot do better than eat 
some breakfast.” 

“And you too, sir,” put in Mrs. Jonson. “You have been out 
these two hours, and must want your food. If you sit down now 
with the young lady, and have your breakfast comfortable-like, Sa- 
rah Jane can run round to the Admiral’s in less than no time.” 

Sarah Jane, a stout, good-tempered young woman, looked as if she 
would rather remain where she was. It occurred to the Vicar that 
the arrangement might not lack in comfort, although it would want 
sadly in propriety; and then, as the idea of the fearful, hideous scan- 
dal that would forthwith arise in Newforth passed through his mind, 
he laughed, while Ethel again blushed scarlet. 

“ I can go in less time than Sarah, thank you, Mrs. Jonson,” he re- 
plied, quietly, and taking up his hat went out. 

“ Shall I give you some breakfast, miss,” said Mrs. Jonson, some- 
what shortly. 

“Thank you, no!” returned Ethel, promptly; “I would much 
rather not have any;” and she too thought of the remarks which 
would ensue in NewWth. 

“ Then I will take it down again, and keep it hot for the master,” 
returned the cook, quickly, and seizing up the dishes for fear Ethel 
might change her mind. Her back once turned, Sarah Jane began 
to indulge her curiosity to the full. 

“ Do tell, miss, how it happened,” she began, “ and, now that mas- 
ter is out, wouldn’t you like to step up-stairs with me and make sure 
there ain’t no broken bones anywheres?” 

The situation was becoming worse and worse; was it not enough 
to invade the Vicar’s dining-room, but she must also trespass on his 
up-stairs premises? 

“ There are no bones broken,” she replied, coldly. “I was very 
much shaken by my fall, and felt very faint for a short time; that 
is all. ” 

Seeing that the housemaid’s inquisitive eyes were fixed on her face, 
Ethel turned away, and looked straight at the table. But the watch- 
ful Sarah Jane would not thus be baffled in her efforts for conver- 
sation. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


15 


*' Yes, miss, the breakfast service is plain — disgraceful plain to my 
taste, which I dare say is what you’re thinking of.” 

Ethel immediately disclaimed any thought of the kind. 

“But you see, miss,” continued the undaunted Sarah Jane, “mas- 
ter, he made an agreement with cook when he first come. I heard 
’em talking of it through the doorway.” 

“And what right had you to listen?” asked Ethel, sharply. 

The housemaid laughed. 

‘ ‘ Says he, ‘ Now, Mrs. Jonson, I don’t want no trouble about house- 
keeping. I will give you so much a month, and you are to find every- 
tliink, breakages and all, and if there is any money over we will give 
it away in soup to the sick poor ’ — which I thinks a mistake. Sick 
poor, indeed! as if master weren’t worth fifty sick poor.” 

“ Beally,” said Ethel, “ I should much prefer not to hear the details 
of the Vicar’s domestic arrangements.” 

This somewhat lofty speech was above the comprehension of the 
housemaid. 

“And I heerd that cat of a Mrs. Jonson a-saying to him,” she con- 
tinued, “ ‘ If 1 am to have a fixed sum every month, and pay for the 
breakages, Sarah Jane is that careless that I must put away all the 
best china.’ And master he laughed, and said he did not at all mind 
that, so long as he could have ever so many tablecloths. And though 
he don’t care much what he eats, if there is the least little spot on 
the tablecloth I daren’t lay it again. And says ho: ‘I don’t wish 
you to starve me, Mrs. Jonson, and you are by no means to starve 
yourselves ; but if you are careful in the housekeeping, it will be all 
the better for my poor people.’ So Mrs. Jonson, she says; ‘ Me and 
master will do this;’ and, miss, she is that mean in the kitchen now, 
that I daren’t ask for more than two helpings of meat for dinner; 
the only p’int in her favor is that she do look out for master.” 

Ethel went to the window, and caught sight of the Vicar and her 
sister walking along briskly. She went to meet them. 

“This is an improvement!” said Mr. Manley; “I suppose break- 
fast has revived you. Really, I was somewhat uneasy about you, 
you looked so pale.” 

“ I do wish you wouldn’t be so moony, Ethel, ’’added her sister, 
.sharply; “do you suppose I should have let a donkey-cart run over 
me?” 

“ It .shows me how great your relief is at finding your sister imiii- 
jiired. Miss Hatton,” said the Vicar, smiling, “that you can scold her; 
We are always glad to find some vent for our feelings when they 
have been roused. But don’t be too hard on her.” 

“ I won’t,” answered Miss Hatton, laughing; “ but please do go in 
now, Mr. Manley, and have your breakfast, I am sure you must 
want it.” 

“ Do I look faint and exhausted?” he asked, with a laugh. 

“No; quite the reverse.” 

“Then, in my capacity of doctor, I will see you as far as your 
gate. I did study surgery at one time,” 

“Why?” 


16 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“I knew it would be useful to me in a country parish. But I 
must run in and fetch your basket, Miss Ethel, you have left it be- 
hind you.” 

He ran in as he said, and overtook the girls in less than a minute, 
with an amused look on his face. 

“Not only were the ham and eggs gone, but the dish and coffee- 
pot also! You did not eat them, did you, Miss Ethel?” 

“I — ” began Ethel, looking confused, when the Vicar interrupted 
her. 

“No, don’t explain; 1 am sure I understand the true state of the 
case. I am quite aware that Mrs. Jonson looks on every one as a 
mortal enemy who interferes with my breakfast or dinner; I have no 
doubt she scarcely gave you the opportunity of any breakfast.” 

The bend of the road brought them face to face with Admiral 
Hatton, who had finished his toilet in a prodigious hurry; which, 
perhaps, was the reason that his necktie was pushed under his ear, 
and his hair stood on end. 

“Here you are, my girl!” he exclaimed, heartily, holding out his 
hand to her as he spoke; “ we began to think something dreadful was 
the matter. People who tell you 'about an accident nearly always 
hide the real truth.” 

“That is not my custom,” answered Mr. Manley. “I always 
think it best to state the exact circumstances;” and after a few 
further words he took his leave. 

At the garden gates Mrs. Hatton appeared ; a stout, kindly-looking 
woman of forty-five. She, too, had dressed hastily, and came forth 
minus a collar. 

“What a relief to see you, my dear!” she exclaimed; “ the Vicar 
gave us such a turn when he said you were at his house feeling faint. 

I thought it must be something much worse. ” 

“ Truth must be a great rarity,” said Miss Hatton, somewhat scorn- 
fully, “ as when a man is found who speaks it simply, no one believes 
him. Ethel felt faint, and the Vicar said so, and we all thereupon 
imagined she was dead!” 

“I hope the story won’t get about,” said Mrs. Hatton, a little anx- , 
iously, “people do make such ill-natured remarks. They might say 
she only made a pretence in order to see something of Mr. Manley.” 

“Stuff an’ nonsense!” rejoined the Admiral, testily. “Ridic’lus! 
Let them say what they like.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE BRITISH WORKIMAN. 

The Vicar was at his garden gate, a newspaper in his hand, when 
Mr. Leslie went by on his w^ay to the town. 

“Good-morning,’' said Mr. Manley; “you are the very man I 
wanted to see. I am now going to ask for your help.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


17 


“I thought the ladies were to help you. I hear you- have sum- 
moned a grand meeting of them to the vicarage this morning.” 

“That is the case.” 

“ With a view to pauperizing the parish?” 

“ Kindly explain yourself,” returned the Vicar, with a smile. 

“Well, in other words, I heard you were going to establish district 
visiting, which I suppose means giving money to working men’s fam- 
ilies who don’t want it. Talk about the working man!” said Mr. 
Leslie, with great energy, “why, we are slaves to him! Whether 
the House of Lords will be done away with I don’t know — I am not 
much of a politician — or whether England will ever be outwardly 
democratic I don’t care ; but I do maintain that the working man is 
in reality lord and master now” 

“How so?” 

“I can’t drink a glass of wine because the ‘workingman’ may 
find it a bad example for him ; I can’t bet half a crown on a boat- 
race because the ‘ working man ’ should not gamble. I declare he is 
in every way first and foremost. Theoretically he is an intellectual 
person, who must have picture-galleries and museums open on Sun- 
days to improve his dear mind (quite regardless of the fact that it de- 
prives ever so many other people of their rest on Sunday); he must 
have libraries, and read Ruskin and Tennyson, and study the higher 
life and high art; he must have the choicest photographs to adorn 
his walls. Well, perhaps ” — Mr. Leslie’s tone was extremely dubious 
as he said this word — ''perhaps the London working man is that sort 
of a person, but, as far as the Newforth working man is concerned, 
I will tell you what he is like — and I ought to know, having had vast 
experience of him in these law-courts, and frequently seeing him, to 
use a forcible but graphic expression, ‘beastly drunk.’ The New- 
forth working man, as I before said, has only one idea, and that is 
beer. If there were fifty Ruskins and a hundred Tennysons, and 
two hundred and fifty picture-galleries and museums in this place, 
he would still spend his time on Sunday between bed and the public- 
house.” 

“What more cogent argument could you possibly adduce for striv- 
ing to reclaim him?” asked the Vicar, quietly. 

‘ ‘ I believe the effort hopeless, and you will only be laughed at for 
your pains.” 

“I suppose, ’’said the Vicar, holding out his paper, “that you do 
not accuse the Standard of any sentimental leanings towards the 
Church?” 

“No; the Standard is always moderate.” 

“Have you seen it this morning?” 

“No; I take the Times and Telegraph, which I prefer.” 

“Then I will read you a short passage from the leader of to-day: 
‘When we look out upon the mass of suffering and sorrow and 
vice which greets us in all our great cities, and know that the only 
class of men seriously engaged in combating it are the clergy, it 
seems little short of monstrous to protest against the extension of 
their influence. If they had ten times as much as they have, we 

2 


18 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


might all be grateful for it.’ You see, some portion at least of the 
world does not think all effort hopeless.” 

Mr. Leslie shrugged his shoulders. 

“With regard to pauperizing the people,” continued the Vicar, 
with a smile, “ I do not propose to do so. I will tell you how 1 wish 
to give. If I were ill and any kind friends sent me — let us say some 
beef-tea, or jelly or” — he laughed — “or perhaps a mutton chop, or a 
pudding; if any one did so — ” 

“If?” interrupted Mr. Leslie. “If you were ill, the ladies would 
send you cartloads of jelly and grapes, barrels of beef-tea. I don’t 
know about the chops and tlie puddings,” he added, with a laugh, 
“but there would doubtless be hampers of game.” 

“And, ’’said the Vicar, “were I to see these cartloads of which 
you speak (really, the Newforth people must be more generous than 
I gave them credit for!) unpacked before my very eyes, I should ac- 
cept them gratefully in the spirit in which they were sent, and not 
feel in the least degree pauperized. Send a man to me who can 
work but won’t, and you won’t find I have anything to bestow on 
him except a few words of rather stern advice.” 

“You may not, but the ladies will be imposed on.” 

“ Perhaps so: we must all buy our experience.” 

“ Now, do you really think that women are a morsel of good in the 
way of work, Mr. Manley?” 

“Decidedly they are of use.” 

“My opinion,” said Mr. Leslie, energetically, “is that they go at 
it with a rush, for the novelty of the thing, and then get tired and 
give it up.” 

“I grant you they are sometimes not to be depended on, but is 
every man of your acquaintance to be depended on? And for small 
acts of self-sacrifice give me a woman.” 

“That’s all very well,” returned the church-warden, “but you 
must be quite aware that half of them will come to-day to see you." 

“ I dare say they will,” replied the Vicar, with a smile, for he was 
a thorough man of the world, clergyman notwithstanding; “but, ac- 
cording to your own showing, the other half will have a better 
motive.” 

Mr. Leslie perched himself on the ^ate-post, his long legs dangled 
on the ground; the Vicar looked at his broad chest with approval. 

“As I before said, you are the very man I want to help me.” 

“What’s it about?” asked the warden, dubiously. “I give 3’-ou 
fair warning, Mr. Manley, I’m not going to be cajoled into doing 
anything in the way of poor and sick people; it isn’t in my line.” 

The Vicar laughed. 

“And,” continued Mr. Leslie, “I think I ought to tell j^ou that 
you have got the wrong sort of warden, and I seriously advise j^ou to 
put up another man in my place next Easter,” 

“It strikes me that I have got the right sort of warden, and I have 
no wish to change.” 

“ Perhaps Admiral Hatton and I had better exchange duties; I’m 
eure he would suit you better; and if I represent the people, I 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


19 


phouldn’t mind having an occasional argument with you if you inno- 
vate us too much,” 

“ Admiral Hatton would be of no use for the service I am going to 
ask of you. It is not to visit the poor and sick.” 

“ Is it missions then— collecting money, or anything of that sort? 
because I tell you frankly that I can’t bear missionaries.” 

“ Strongly as I sympathize both with home and foreign missions, 
I am not going to ask you to assist in that manner. Try again. ” 

‘ ‘ It’s to give a subscription to something. ” 

“It is quite possible I may ask you to do so, but that is not the 
primary object of your help. I want you to get up a cricket club. ” 

“ Oh !” said the church- warden, vastly relieved. “ W ell, I shouldn’t 
mind doing that.” 

“ I thought you would not, though it will give you a great deal of 
trouble,” 

“How did you know I was a cricketer?” 

“Perhaps I evolved the fact out of my inner consciousness,” re- 
plied the Vicar, laughing; “ but I knew that if you were not a crick- 
eter you ought to be, with your muscles. The fact is, there are a 
vast number of young men and lads about this town, who, not hav- 
ing yet arrived at the public-house stage, still get into terrible mis- 
chief for the sheer want of something to do. I want to get hold of 
them. We must induce them to join our club, and set them going 
to begin with. If it can do no good it can do no harm.” 

“ And am I to play with all these cads?” 

“You are certainly to direct them how to play. I will come and 
play myself when I have time. I used to be a very fair bowler.” 

Mr, Leslie’s face brightened perceptibly. 

“ If you are coming, we shall get along in fine style, and I think I 
can manage the first outlay in the way of stumps, bats and balls, etc.” 

“Thank you very much; once fairly started it should be self-sup- 
porting.” 

“Quite so!” 

“And I hope after a time to get hold of these lads in other ways; 
get them to attend church, and so on.” 

“ I hope I haven’t to be responsible for that!” exclaimed Mr. Les- 
lie, in alarm. 

The Vicar laughed heartily. 

“By no means, I will take all that responsibility.” 

“ I shouldn’t mind lending my field to play in; but I fear I must 
be off now, or I shall be very late.” 

“Good-bye then, and thank you very much. Our greatest diffi- 
culty is now removed at the outset, for your field will be a capital 
place to play in.” 

“Now, what possessed me to offer that field?” thought Mr. Leslie 
as he walked on, “when I positively refused it, even for one day, to 
the Dissenters last year. However, if I do go in for this business, 
I’ll go in for it thoroughly. I shall beat the Vicar at single wicket, 
I’m sure. ” 

The ladies assembled at the vicarage at half -past eleven. Mr. 


20 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Manley had given out a notice in church that he should be glad of a 
few ladies to assist him, therefore he was scarcely prepared for the 
influx of thirty-eight. 

After, with some difficulty, seating them in the drawing-room, 
which, fortunately, was a large double room, with folding doors, he 
stood up in front of the mantelpiece and began to speak. 

In repose his face was habitually grave, his somewhat spare cheeks 
and determined mouth giving him almost a stern look ; but when he 
smiled — and he smiled as he addressed the ladies — his whole face 
lit up. 

As he looked round the room he thought of the church-warden’s 
words, and wondered how many of the assemblage had come to see 
him personally; and then he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and 
resolved to look on them in the light of helpers, solely and simply. 

Most of the principal families were represented by some member 
or other, young ladies preponderating. Miss Hatton was there, 
looking very handsome ; Ethel very pretty. 

The Vicar gave a searching glance into every one’s face, and, se- 
lecting twelve ladies, asked them to become district visitors. 

“ That is to say,” he continued, “ if it will not interfere with home 
duties; for I am sure you will agree with me that they have the first 
claim.” 

Two ladies begged to withdraw their names in consequence 

Miss Hatton and her sister volunteered in their stead. 

“ But what are we to do?” asked the former, briskly; “are we to 
walk unauthorized into their houses, and look in their cupboards, 
and tell them their rooms are not clean, and force a tract into their 
hands?” 

“I hope not,” returned the Vicar, smiling; “can you not call on 
them as you would on any lady of your acquaintance. Make friends 
with them, that is all I ask to begin with, and by degrees induce them 
to help themselves. By visiting them regularly you can soon do 
this, and will then be enabled to point out to me any special case of 
distress or poverty or sickness or spiritual want, which I shall only 
be too glad to look into. ” 

And then other schemes, relating to clubs for clothing, etc., were 
discussed, until every one in the room had her work cut out for her. 

“ I trust I may not frighten you by my demands,” he said; “and 
I am quite aware you will all say that with me it is a case of ‘ new 
broom.’ Granted; but we are told a new broom sweeps clean— at 
all events for a time; and there is one subject which I must approach 
cautiously, as it is a very delicate one— I mean the subject of your 
dress.” 

“You don’t want us to wear poke bonnets, I hope, and dress like 
Sisters!” said Miss Hatton. 

“On the contrary; far be it from me to suggest that you are not 
always dressed with the same elegance with which I see you now. 
I was only going to advise— though I know I am taking a great libl 
erty, for which I trust you will pardon me— that in visiting the poor 
you should not wear your oldest clothes, where the houses are clean’ 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWPORT!!. 


21 


Tiie very poor, especially, admire good dress in their lady visitors, 
and take it as a compliment, I will arrange to go round with each 
of you on your visit and introduce you.” 

“In that case,” whispered Miss Hatton, “ he may he quite sure we 
shall wear our best clothes!” 


CHAPTER V. 

ETHEL’S TROUBLES. 

It was a pouring wet day and, in addition, there was a southwest 
gale blowing. It had been raining in torrents all night, and the state 
of the roads was beyond description. 

Ethel Hatton stood in the hall of her father’s house, habited in an 
ulster and felt hat. 

“What’s the front door open about?” called Miss Hatton from the 
dining-room; “ it makes such a fearful draught in here.” 

“ I am going out, ” returned Ethel, opening her umbrella. 

Miss Hatton went into the hall. Lieutenant Campbell, who was 
staying in the house, followed her. 

“You can’t be such a fool as to be going to your district to-day, 
Ethel, ’’said her sister, who was given to plainness of speech. 

“ It is the day.” 

“Does the day admit of no alteration, like the laws of the Medes 
and Persians?” asked Mr. Campbell, a tall, big young man, with fair 
hair and a long flaxen beard and mustache. 

“When I undertake a duty, I like to fulfil it,” Ethel replied, dis- 
tantly, Mr. Campbell being no favorite of hers. 

“The mud will be up to your ankles in Rosemary Lane: let me 
see what boots you have on,” said Miss Hatton. 

Ethel held out a very pretty French-clad foot. 

“It’s ridiculous to go out like that,” continued her sister; “you 
will be wet through before you are out of the garden gates.” 

Mrs. Hatton came down-stairs at this moment. 

“What are you all doing in the hall?” she asked. “With this 
wind blowing, it makes the house very cold to have the door 
open.” 

“Ethel insists on going to visit her district, mother,” said Miss 
Hatton; “and just look at the boots she has on.” 

“You certainly cannot go like that, my dear. But if you will 
wear my goloshes, I do not know that you will take any harm.” 

Now, of all things Ethel abhorred goloshes. 

“ They are a great deal too large for me; I could not keep them 
on, ’’she replied. 

“Then you must stay at home, my dear; I cannot let you run the 
risk of being laid up.” 

Ethel considered a moment, and remembered a practical sermon 
of the Vicar’s, in which he had said that duties should not be set on 


22 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


one side because they involved small sacrifices. Surely this was a 
case in point. 

But to wear the odious goloshes was nothing less than a great sac- 
rifice ; well, perhaps the more creditable. 

“ I will wear them,” she said, ruefully. 

“I will put them on for you,” said Mr. Campbell, muttering to 
himself as he did so, “ it will speed the parting guest.” 

There is nothing more conducive to misgiving than having our 
own way. A little more opposition, and Ethel would have departed 
with the feelings of a martyr; as it was, her heart began to fail her. 

“Though I advised your sister not to go, I must say I am very 
glad to have a chat all to ourselves,” said Mr. Campbell, returning to 
the dining-room with Miss Hatton. “Is she sweet on your Vicar 
that she is so bent on carrying out her good works?” 

“That isn’t fair, ” replied Miss Hatton, warmly. “Ethel always 
did the most absurd things if she thought she ought; she is a most 
conscientious little creature.” 

“ You did not answer my question, all the same.” 

“Come to that,” returned the girl, calmly, “we are all in love 
with him.” 

“I say!” ejaculated Mr. Campbell, crossly. 

Miss Hatton laughed. “Oh, don’t be alarmed; there is safety in 
numbers, you know! Besides, the men are just as bad. Somehow, 
the Vicar has such a knack of getting round people. Now, there is 
Mr. Leslie; he declared first of all that nothing would induce him to 
exert himself, yet here he is working like a slave about this cricket 
club, and canvassing right and left to get people to join, and obtain- 
ing subscriptions. Not only that, but he, at the Vicar’s suggestion, 
is doing his utmost to get up a guild for the amusement of the young 
men during the winter months.” 

“ How does this ninth wonder-of-the-world manage it?” 

‘ ‘ I don’t know. Somehow he does manage it. He says to people, 

‘ I am sure you will do this and that,’ and they do it.” 

“ I have heard quite enough about him, 1 assure you. I object to 
hashed Vicar, and would rather not have a rechauffe of all his won- 
derful doings. I wonder how Miss Ethel is getting on.” 

. Miss Ethel was getting on very badly. “Was there ever such 
rain?” she thought. It came down in pelting torrents; in five min- 
utes’ time the corners of her umbrella were streaming. She shut this 
up in despair. 

To save her steps she turned down a narrow lane, a short-cut to 
her district, her feet slipping at every step. The large goloshes stuck 
in the mud, wdiich now penetrated betwoen them and her boots. 
Her hair, blown about, straggled on her forehead; her hat was pushed 
on one side. She struggled bravely on, ashamed to turn back. 

But who was this coming dowm the road which intersected the 
lane she was in? Horror of horrors! It w'as the Vicar! 

She felt b\\q could not see him in her present plight, so walked on 
as fast as possible. Alas, her speed was fatal to her! with a sudden 
spring one of the hateful goloshes jumped off her foot, and lodged 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


23 


in a ditch some inches deep in mud. In stooping to pick it up a 
further misfortune befell her; her purse dropped from her pocket 
and lay in the middle of the road. 

She stood and looked at it, helplessly holding the golosh in one 
hand, at arm’s length. Her gloves were ruined ; h^er feet — one glance 
at them appalled her. Were these two mud-enveloped lumps her 
nice little feet, of which she had been so proud? She looked again, 
and suddenly burst out laughing. 

A manly voice spoke at her elbow. “Pray, allow me to assist 
you. This is the second time I find you in difficulties!” 

There was the Vicar buttoned up to the chin, and wearing gaiters. 
There was a smile in his eyes as he spoke, otherwise he gave no sign 
of appreciating the humor of the situation. 

He picked up the purse, and with his clean white handkerchief 
wiped it dry. 

“You will ruin your handkerchief,” said Ethel, nervously. He 
took the golosh from her hand and, shaking the mud from it, was 
proceeding to apply his handkerchief to that also. 

‘ ‘ I can’t let you do that, Mr. Manley. Please give it to me, and — 
and — I do wish you would go on.” A gust of wind came as she 
spoke, and nearly blew her down, while the sea broke on the shore 
in great billows. 

“ Are you aware that when you get round the corner you will feel 
the wind w'ith double force? I doubt if you will be able to stand.” 

“Is it as bad as that?” 

“ It is quite as bad; and although you wish me to go, I really feel 
it to be my duty to see you home.” 

Ethel crimsoned. If only her hat would keep straight, and her 
hair stay in its place, she thought it would not seem quite so bad. 

The Vicar polished the india-rubber shoe, and threw his handker- 
-chief into the lane afterwards. (In parenthesis we may observe it 
was picked up and restored to him clean.) 

“ Oh, dear!” exclaimed Ethel, “you have lost your handkerchief 
all through me. ” 

“It is not often that I indulge in a piece of extravagance. Do 
you consider it very wicked on my part? I could not well put it 
into my pocket.” 

“You are very kind, thank you very much. Please give me back 
my goloshes. ” 

“I have only one; I will put it on for you.” 

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Manley,” said Ethel, nervously; 
“I can put it on myself, and I want you to see me home.” 

“I doubt if you will get home at all, unless I do; the gale is in- 
creasing every minute. Now, put out your foot.” 

She did so; it appeared such an enormous size, caked as it was 
with mud,that the sight overcame her gravity. The Vicar laughed also. 

‘ ‘ I fear the goloshes are rather large for you. I must suggest, if 
you will allow me, that you should take the other off and walk home 
without any, seeing that you can scarcely be in worse condition as 
to wet and mud than you are already.” 


24 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“I couldn’t carry them home; the one I have on must weigh 
pounds, from the mud on it.” 

‘ ‘ I take the hint ; I shall he pleased to carry them home for 
you.” 

“It wasn’t a hint, Mr. Manley,” said Ethel, blushing furiously; 
“I would greatly prefer carrying them myself to troubling you.” 

He smiled. 

“Now, wasn’t that speech a little unkind?” 

“Why?” 

“You know I shall not allow you to take them, and you wish to 
deprive me of any credit when I carry them.” 

“ Are you sure ! cannot go on?” she asked, meekly. 

“ I am quite sure. Let us turn our faces towards your house.” 

The wind now w^as in their backs; it forced Ethel along at such 
a rate that she became breathless. 

“ Stand still a iqpment,” said the Vicar, “and take my arm.” 

She did so, and ih «pite of her discomfiture thought there might 
be worse situations thaii'tqbe in the company of a delightful Vicar, 
who was looking down at with so pleasant an expression in his 
bright eyes. That he would have done as much for any old woman 
of his congregation she was quite aware, but, would he have looked 
at her so kindly ? She hoped not. 

“ What took you out on such a morning?” he asked. 

“ I was going to visit my district.” 

“Do you not think you would have been wiser to have remained 
at home?” 

“I only went because you said I ought,” returned Ethel, feeling 
very crestfallen. 

“ I said you ought?” repeated the astonished Vicar. 

“Yes; you said last Sunday that we ought not to neglect our 
duties because they made us uncomfortable.” 

“lam very glad that you do endeavor to give a practical result to 
my teaching ; but in this instance you must forgive my remarking, 
my dear Miss Ethel, that your zeal should have been tempered with 
discretion.” 

She looked very grave. 

“Are you very much offended with me?” he continued, with a 
smile. “ Rest assured that I give you full credit for your good in- 
tentions; only I think that you w’^ould have been wiser to have gone 
out to-morrow, instead of to-day.” 

“ Of course I am not offended, Mr. Manley,” she replied, gently; 
“ I see I was very foolish. I am only sorry that I should have put 
you to so much inconvenience.” 

“I have very often endured a far more disagreeable morning; it is 
all in my day’s work.” 

“You are so good to every one.” 

“ I don’t know that. Look there, this is Mr. Rowen!” 

Now Mr. Rowen was the new curate; a tall, thin, melancholy man, 
with large bony hands, and an expression of countenance which sug- 
gested to the onlooker that the church’s treatment of Mr. Rowen had 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


25 


not been quite equal to what it ought to have been in the estimation 
of that individual, and that this fact had caused a settled gloom over 
his life. 

At this moment he was struggling with his umbrella, and the um- 
brella seemed getting decidedly the best of it, having turned inside 
out, and resolutely refusing to be restored to a decorous position. 

Mr. Manley laughed. 

“You will never manage it, Eowen,” he said, “so long as you 
stand with your back to the wind;” and taking the umbrella out of 
the curate’s hand, he grappled with it successfully, restoring it to the 
owner shut. “ Umbrellas are a mistake on such a day,” he added. 
“Also” — in a lower tone, which only reached Ethel’s ears — “also 
goloshes.” 

Mr. Rowen looked helplessly at his wet coat, and observed that, as 
the rain was coming in large splashes on to his face, he thought he 
had better go home. 

“ I think so too,” replied the Vicar. 

“Now, Miss Ethel, we are at your house at last.” 

“ Won’t you come in?” 

He would have declined, but Admiral Hatton was at the door, and 
gave him a hearty invitation to enter and have lunch. The sight of 
the Vicar with his daughter did not cause him the smallest surprise; 
it was his opinion that every young man would escort his girls home 
if he could get the chance. 

“May I wash my hands?” asked Mr. Manley, holding his out, and 
showing the mud on them. 

“ There isn’t a very good lunch, father!” said Miss Hatton, in a low 
voice. 

“You won’t mind that, will you?” returned the Admiral, loudly. 

“lam quite sure I shall not mind.” 

But although the luncheon was very plain, consisting of cold mut- 
ton, bread, cheese, butter, and biscuits, the table was prettily laid, and 
the whole effect very good; for the girls were careful always to see 
to these points. The butter was made into fancy shapes and orna- 
mented with parsley, the cheese grated, while the six vases of flow- 
ers on the table were most artistically arranged. 

Like most retired naval officers. Admiral Hatton was not very well 
off; but house-rent was low and living moderate in Newforth, there- 
fore he and his family managed to live in quiet comfort. 

Their house was a long, low, rambling building, standing in a large 
garden; it was somewhat out of repair, but looked very homelike, 
with the shady trees surrounding it, and bright flowers in the beds 
in front. At luncheon tlie Admiral ordered in some rum and 
whiskey, and some hot water. 

“ Now, Mr. Manley,” he said, heartily, “you have been very wet, 
you must take a glass of hot grog.” 

“You must excuse me, sir,” returned the Vicar, “I never take 
spirits of any kind.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense!” said the old man, with energy; “you have 
been wet through, and must want it.” 


26 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ I am not indeed,” replied the Vicar, quietly; “my overcoat and 
le^ings thoroughly protected me.” 

T^he Admiral began to argue the point, and in the midst of the dis- 
cussion in came Mr. and Mrs. Leslie; for Mrs. Leslie was a dauntless 
young woman, who disregarded weather. 

Seeing that Admiral Hatton was becoming seriously discomposed, 
the Vicar thought fit to give a reason for his refusal. 

“ I am not a teetotaler,” he said, in answer to a direct question, 
“but I never touch wine, beer, or spirits.” 

“Do you disapprove of it?” 

“Certainly not, in moderation; but I found I could not speak 
with any effect to men who drank unless they were aware that I 
abstained myself. In this manner I have induced a large number of 
men who were ruining themselves to sign the pledge.” 

“ I knew it,” said Mr. Leslie, triumphantly; “ a slave to the work- 
ing man!” 

Miss Hatton gave him a meaning glance. 

“How about your lads?” she asked. “You needn’t look so inno- 
cent, Mr. Leslie; I hear you are as touchy as possible now concern- 
ing their behavior, and take quite a pride in the cricket club.” 

“ Ah,” he replied, “ those lads do behave well; they are the excep- 
tion which prove the rule. I dare say I am a slave to the working 
man also; I always said we all were.” 

“ I must confess,” said the Vicar, “ that it took me a long time be- 
fore I could feel any real sympathy with the temperance movement. 
But the longer I live and go about among the poor— ay, and some- 
times among the rich too— the more strongly I feel the pressing need 
of exertion to try to stem the tide of drunkenness, and the fearful 
evils caused thereby. ” 

“ Awfully slow conversation!” said Mr. Campbell to Miss Hatton, 
in a low voice; “these parsons are such prigs.” 

“Be quiet,” she replied, sharply; “Mr. Manley is certainly not 
one.” 

“Look at his hair parted so evenly down the middle, not a hair 
awry !” rejoined Mr. Campbell, who seemed to look on the fact as 
a personal affront; but to this remark Miss Hatton paid no atten- 
tion. 

“ There must be something very wrong about cold water,” said 
Mr. Leslie, “ judging by the effect it has on nearly every one — pres- 
ent company, of course, excepted. A cold bath of a day makes a 
man despise every one who does not take one — I know this by my 
own feelings; and I am given to understand that teetotalers think 
not only that every virtue under the sun may be summed up in 
the word teetotalism, but that every vice under the sun is repre- 
sented in the person of those who are not teetotalers; but on this 
point I do not speak from experience.” 

“As there is no actual teetotaler present,” said the Vicar, with a 
smile, “suppose we leave it an open question,” and then certain 
church matters began to be discussed between liimself and his col- 
leagues. 


HE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 27 

“ To do as you propose will take a large sum of money,” said Mr 
Leslie. 

“We will raise it.” 

“But how? If Mr. Smith wanted enough money to pay for a 
broken window, he could not get it without grumbling at us for a 
quarter of an hour at a time.” 

“ I do not propose to grumble; I do not think any one is influ- 
enced in that manner. But may I ask what you call grumbling?” 

“ If I take a five-pound note, and you say to me, ‘ You are a thief, 
you have committed a sin,’ that is all right, you are doing your duty; 
but if I make an effort to go to church on a wet night, and then 
have to listen for no end of a time to complaints because the other 
people have stayed away, that I call gmmbling; and, if clergymen 
only knew it, it affronts the congregation beyond measure.” 

‘ ‘ And very properly, ” replied the Vicar. ‘ ‘ But I must say I never 
hear this gi’umbling of which you speak.” 

Mr. Leslie laughed. 

“Really, I think a clergyman ought sometimes to look with the 
eyes of the congregation. You don’t grumble, and when you go to 
other churches, of course, the mere sight of a brother clergyman, 
whether in a black coat or surplice, prevents the vicars from scold- 
ing their people. But if you only knew how perpetually the con- 
gregations at other churches are lectured for what is as often as not 
the clergyman’s own fault, for his failing in Ms own duty, you would 
not wonder at what I say. A man who has a season ticket for the 
Crystal Palace, and spends his whole time between that and going to 
parties, cannot expect his congregation to work among the London 
back streets; but that very man will take his people to task on that 
account, as if he himself were immaculate and were always doing 
good works.” 

“I am sorry tO hear it,” said the Vicar. “Since I have been 
among you I have had no cause to complain.” 

The party had adjourned to the drawing-room. Mr. Campbell 
went to the window and looked out seawards ; the waves, white- 
crested, were rolling in heavily. 

“ Even should the wind drop, there will be a good sea on to-mor- 
row,” he remarked. “I hear ” — turning to the Vicar — “ that you are 
a good swimmer; will you swim round the further buoy with me to- 
morrow morning; and if you beat me I will give you a sovereign 
towards your offertory.” 

“ I never bet,” returned Mr. Manley, “but I will swim with you at 
six to-morrow morning; I cannot be later on account of the eight- 
o’clock service.” 

“ Is there service every morning? That’s something new, isn’t 
it?” 

“ Yes,” replied Miss Hatton, “ it is something new. There are a 
great many things new, and will be a great many more, I have no 
doubt.” 

“And who goes? only girls, I suppose.” 

“ We have a very fair number, though we hope for more.” 


28 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Miss Hattou walked into the conservatory, followed by Mr. Camp- 
bell. 

“ Why did you ask him to race you?” she said. “ He is athletic, 
but I don’t know that he is so very strong, while you are; and 1 
don’t suppose he can swim as well as you do.” 

‘ ‘ If anything were wanting to decide me, it would be your speech, ” 
replied the young man, with a disagreeable frown. “I should have 
thought you might have shown a little solicitude on my account.” 

She laughed. 

“ Now, don’t be cross. I’ll tell you what I will do. I will get all 
the girls I know to go to church to-morrow morning, and you can 
tell us all about your winning the race when service is over.” 

Mr. Campbell looked highly gratified. 

“That’s a good idea, fie will come into church dead beat, and 
gasp through his reading.” 

“ For shame!” 

But on the morrow the Vicar entered the church as the clock 
struck eight, looking fresh as usual, and took the entire service with- 
out any effort (for at present Mr. Rowen did not attend in the morn- 
ing). 

He had gone round the further buoy, and beaten Mr. Campbell 
easily. 

“ fiere is your sovereign,” said the latter, sulkily, as he stood in 
the porch; “ and what are all those girls grinning about?” he added, 
savagely, watching a group of girls laughing and talking. “It 
seems to me the service hasn’t done them much good, or they 
wouldn’t be giggling inside the very church doors.” 

“I quite agree with you,” returned the Vicar, gravely. But no 
argument would induce him to accept Mr. Campbell’s sovereign. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE AMATEUR CONCERT. 

“I WISH you would tell me, Gertrude,” said Ethel Hatton, “what 
you intend to do about Mr. Campbell.” 

The girls were dressing for dinner; Miss Hatton was seated in 
front of her glass, combing out her long dark hair. 

“ What have you done with my hairpins, Ethel?” was the only 
reply she vouchsafed. 

“Here they are,” returned Ethel; “and now, perhaps, you will 
answer my question.” 

“ What do you suppose I am to do about him?” 

“ Well,” said Ethel, slowly, and looking out of the window as she 
spoke, “ it seems to me that it is scarcely fair to encourage a man so 
much, who is deeply in love with you, if you don’t care about him. 
And I really don’t think you care for Mr. Campbell — and I’m sure I 
don’t.” 


THE liACIlELOK VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


29 


“ As to that,” replied IVIiss Hatton, calmly, “ no one ever thought 
you did care for him, and it’s just as well you don’t.” 

“ Do you care for him, Gertrude?” asked her sister, earnestly. 

Now, there had been a time when Miss Hatton had thought she 
did; she was very much less sure of her feelings now. The advent 
of Mr. Manley had aroused in a really noble nature a desire for bet- 
ter things than Mr. Campbell’s somewhat vapid society talk. But of 
the Vicar she saw little in private, and she was not blind to the fact 
that he preferred her sister to herself. 

The earnest, intellectual talk in which he sometimes indulged 
filled her with keen delight; he was not only deeply read, but thor- 
oughly conversant with the literature of the day — poetry, art, science, 
architecture, etc. Unfortunately, it was so very seldom that he con- 
ferred the pleasure of his conversation on her — as indeed, in a place 
where there were so many ladies, how could he? But, as she said, 
he lived other people’s lives to so great an extent, entering into all 
their joys and sorrows, that he had no time to show them his inner 
life. 

“ I do not know why you are so anxious to ascertain my feelings, 
Ethel,” she replied to her sister. “I certainly do not think a little 
suspense will injure a man of Mr. Campbell’s stamp.” 

“ Not if you intend to accept him eventually.” 

“ I do not see that I am bound to reveal my intentions,” said Miss 
Hatton, coiling her splendid hair on to the top of her head, bird’s- 
nest fashion, and fastening in some chrysanthemums. “I would 
much rather be told if I look nice.” 

“ You look very nice; but as no one except Mr. Campbell is com- 
ing to dinner, you are taking great pains with yourself, if you don’t 
care for him.” 

“ If I detested him, I should still wish to look nice, my dear; if 
you look charming, you can’t do very wrong— in a man’s eyes.” 

“ He is coming up the road,” said Ethel, looking across the lawn. 

Now Lieutenant Campbell belonged to one of the harbor ships of 
the neighboring town of-Seafort. 

“ Let me see,” said Miss Hatton, going to the window and peering 
through the branches of the trees. “Yes, there he is. He is cer- 
tainly a fine-looking fellow, but what a marvellous thing it is that so 
many naval officers, no matter what they pay for their clothes, never 
get them to fit like soldiers do. There is nearly always a certain 
bagginess about their coats and trousers. ” 

“Because they go to naval tailors for their plain clothes. But I 
am sure Captain Worsley is always well dressed, except that his 
clothes have rather too sporting a cut.” 

“He does dress w^ell,” returned Miss Hatton, “and why? Be- 
cause, though he is in it, he hates the navy. Don’t you remember 
the night he came to see us before going to Africa, when he arrived 
at eleven o’clock at night; he might have been an hour earlier, but 
that instead of coming straight to us he went to Seafort and changed 
his clothes, because he icas ashamed of being seen in uniform!” 

“He is ashamed of the navy altogether,” said Ethel. “I can’t 


30 


THE BACHELOR VICAR Oti’ NEWFORTH. 


think why he stays in it. He puts Mr. Henry Worsley on his 

“ On that point he is a regular fool, my dear. Now, father thinks 
the highest rank in any other profession is not equal to that of an 
admiral. He ranks people thus:— Queen, Prince of Wales, Royal 
Dukes, ADMIRALS. It is a very harniless belief!” And indeed it 
was true that to his mind the world consisted of the army and navy, 
sprinklings of “these civilians” — meaning the rest of the English 
population — being thrown in just to till up odd corners. 

“We ought to go down-stairs,” said Ethel. “I can hear Mr. 
Campbell’s voice.” 

“ It will increase his ardor to be kept waiting,” said her sister, 
composedly. “ Mother is in the drawing-room.” 

“ He always fidgets so, and is so disagreeable until you come in; 
he pulls his beard, and looks like a sulky bear.” 

“ Very probably; you used to say the same about Captain Wors- 
ley.” 

“ Oh, he was very much in love with you, Gertrude; if you had 
only let him, he would have proposed to you before he went away.” 

“Let bygones be bygones; perhaps I will listen to him on his 
return from Africa, which, I believe, will be shortly. We will go 
down now.” 

Mr. Campbell was sitting in front of the fire, appearing, as Ethel 
had predicted, very sulky. The sight of Miss Hatton, looking very 
handsome in her black velveteen and red chrysanthemums, did 
much towards restoring him to good-humor. 

“ So we are to go to this concert to-night!” he exclaimed; “ awful 
bore, isn’t it?” 

Now, an amateur concert was to take place that night under Mr. 
Leslie’s management. The idea had been suggested by the Vicar, 
ostensibly to raise funds towards putting in a large and beautiful 
window in the east end of the church ; but in reality it was one of 
many successful efforts made by him for drawing his people together, 
and encouraging friendly intercourse. 

“I think we had much better stay at home!” continued Mr. Camp- 
bell. “ Come, I’ll give five shillings towards the fund, if we all sit 
over the fire instead.” 

''We are going to do nothing of the kind,” replied Miss Hatton; 
‘ ‘ but you can give five shillings, and sit over the fire yourself, if you 
like.” 

“ It is raining. ” 

“There is a little rain,” said Ethel, looking_out of the window; 
“ but we are not going to let keep us away.” 

“If it rained and hailed and snowed and raged, and the Vicar 
asked us to go miles anywhere, we should go,” said Miss Hatton. 

“ You might,” retorted Mr. Campbell. 

“ We all should; the congregation assemble in a body now when 
they are told to do so. Shall I borrow a quotation and tell you 
why?” • 

“ If you like,” said Mr. Campbell, impatiently. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


31 


Because he has ‘ the deep sincerity of purpose, the sight of 
which has so strong an influence in inducing others to follow our 
admonitions.’ He lives as he preaches.” 

“Give your authority!” returned Mr. Campbell, with a short 
laugh; “ 1 believe you invented that yourself to impose on me.” 

‘ ‘ I am sure I did not. ” 

“lam afraid you cannot go to-night, my dears,” interposed Mrs. 
Hatton; “ it is raining fast.” 

“We can wear goloshes, or we can take shelter at the vicarage,” 
remarked Mr. Campbell, to whom Ethel’s first adventure had been 
told in strict confidence by her sister. 

“ The girls are not made of sugar and salt, my dear; they won’t 
melt,” said Admiral Hatton. “ I am going myself.” 

“ I told you so,” returned Miss Hatton, triumphantly; “you will 
see every one will go, rain or no rain. Father doesn’t go out once a 
year of an evening, except to church.” 

“ Is it a dress affair?” 

“ Oh, no; it is only a shilling concert; you can keep on your over- 
coat, for no one dresses. I hope it will be a success.” 

“ I met your rara mu this morning in Seafort!” 

“ What did he say?” 

“ He said,” remarked Mr. Campbell, with an expression of pleas- 
ure, “ that Mr. Leslie had beaten him hollow at single wicket; and 
he also observed that, except to teach his choir boys to swim as a re- 
ward, he was getting rather out of practice in swimming, and that 
very likely 1 had been out of practice when I swam with him, which 
was true enough.” (For it had come to Mr. Manley’s knowledge 
that Mr. Campbell was seriously offended at being beaten, and the 
Vicar regretted that the match had ever come off, seeing how much 
ill-feeling it had given rise to on the lieutenant’s part.) “ I dare say,” 
continued Mr. Campbell, “ that he said it because he wanted me to 
come to his concert to-night.” 

Ethel’s indignant reply was prevented by the entrance of Mr. and 
Mrs. Leslie, and Mrs. Allen and her son and daughter. 

“ I believe the whole thing will be a failure,” said Mr. Leslie; “ I 
have never had anything to do with amateur concerts before. The 
Vicar manages the next, I’m thankful to say; but I hope he will be 
present to-night to preside.” 

“ Why should he not?” asked Mrs. Hatton. 

“ I saw him hurrying towards the station at a great rate; it_struck 
me whether he might not be going away somewhere.” 

“ I dare say it was only that some poor person had sent for him. 
I wonder, if 1 were in trouble, unconnected with illness or misfortune 
—mental trouble, let us say— how long I might want him before I 
could get him, and yet he would go instantly to a poor person. 
Clergymen always give poor people the preference. ” 

“My stock sentiment!” said Mr. Leslie; “the supremacy of the 
working man!” 

“ My opinion,” said Mr. Campbell, “ is that they vastlv prefer the 
rich. Don’t curates generally marry girls with money ?’^ 


32 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

“They could not well marry without,” returned Mrs. Leslie; 
“ hut it is very often because the rich people invite them the most, 
and so they see the rich girls most frequently. But I agree with you 
to a certain extent, for I think that people like ourselves come worst 
off. As we don’t happen to favor personal confession in this neigh- 
borhood, I should have to face an ordeal before I could get the Vicar 
to speak to me seriously.” 

“ You could ask to see him in the vestry,” said Mrs. Allen. 

Mrs. Leslie laughed. 

“ Well, I might; but I will tell you how it w^ould be. I should 
first send a message by the verger, who always wants to know 
every one’s business, and then, when I got into the vestry, both cler- 
gymen would look at me inquiringly. I should stammer forth that 
I wanted to speak to the Vicar alone, and the curate would with- 
draw. Then, on ascertaining that no such terrible affliction as the 
loss of my mother-in-law had befallen me (I mention this especially, 
because it is a loss that would appeal to e'ccry man’s sympathies!) 
the Vicar, with the best intentions and quite against his will, would 
wonder what snare was being set for him, and whether the conver- 
sation would be quite correct. By this time all my courage would 
have oozed away, although I might be in the very depths of mental 
trouble!” 

“You can scarcely wonder at clergymen being cautious,” said 
Mr. Leslie; “ think of all the young ladies who would want sympa- 
thy!” 

“ I suppose even young ladies have souls!” rejoined Miss Hatton, 
sharply. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! but I will tell you what actually happened to Mr. Manley 
in his last parish,” said Mr. Leslie; “ and mind you, this is a literal 
fact, for which I can vouch, as I heard it from his former curate. 
A maiden lady, some forty years of age, had been in the habit of at- 
tending the services. He was in the vestry one day, when, to his 
horror and amazement, she entered, and throwing herself at his feet, 
exclaimed, ‘ 0 Mr. Manley, I love you so!’ ‘ Get up this moment,’ 
he replied, ‘ and leave the church. How dare you come in here?’ 
The curate, unknown to her, was in the vestry at the time, and the 
story went all over the place.” ^ 

“ Disgusting said the girls, in chorus. 

“ Yes,” rejoined Mr. Leslie, “but that was only one instance of 
which we happened to know. A good deal must go on to annoy a 
clergyman that he never speaks of.” 

This was certainly true as regarded Mr. Manley. He had received 
letters without end, he had been persecuted with attentions, he had 
been worried beyond belief by the very popularity in which he was 
held ; in short, he had been exposed to all those temptations which 
no one but a clergyman, or those intimately acquainted with clergy- 
men, can form any idea of. 

“It is incomprehensible to me why he should be so much run 
after,” said Mrs. Allen; “his preaching is not remarkable, and he is 
certainly melancholy.”’ 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


33 


“ I do not agree with you/’ replied Mrs. Leslie, warmly; “he is 
one of the very few clergymen one believes in, which makes him a 
most exceptional preacher; and to me that quietness of manner is a 
great charm. I feel in another world while I listen.” 

“I suppose he is liked,” said Mr. Leslie, “for I am now at my 
wits’ end to seat the people ; if the church goes on filling at this rate, 
we must put chairs down the aisles, for every sitting is taken.” 

“ But what has he?” asked Mrs. Allen; “ some five hundred a year, 
I suppose. What kind of style could a girl keep up on that?” 

“ Many of our young ladies are glad to marry on three hundred a 
year,” replied Mrs. Leslie. 

“You astonish me,” said Mrs. Allen, raising her eyebrows; “if 
'my daughter were to contemplate such a thing, I should take her 
abroad until she had forgotten all about her love affairs. Is Mr. 
Manley of good family?” 

“I never asked,” returned Mr. Leslie, who was quite aware that 
the Vicar was well descended. “ I am to infer, then, that when he 
proposes for Miss Allen, you will reject him for her with scorn! 1 
really think I ought to warn him. But perhaps some other young 
lady might be found to accept him. As for the money that comes 
in, wlien he asks for it, it is like the widow’s cruse of oil — the more 
we spend, the more we get. I think I will ask the congregation to 
find me a carriage and pair of horses!” 

“ Don’t you wish you may get it !” said Mr. Campbell. “For 
Heaven’s sake, let us Wk of something besides this everlasting Vicar. 
Even the curate would be better for a change; he is also an unmar- 
ried parson.” 

“ Yes,” replied Miss Hatton, “ only that we haven’t a notion what 
he means in his sermons, although he has been accustomed to preach 
for twelve years past ; and it is exactly the same to every one, 
whether he is in a room or out of it.” 

The rain had ceased to fall when the party set out for the concert, 
and Admiral Hatton predicted a fine night. 

The room was already half full when they took their seats. Mr. 
Leslie had hurried on, and was busily engaged in conducting peo- 
ple to their places. In ten minutes’ time every chair was occu- 
pied. 

The room was very ugly, but its hire was cheap, and Mr. Leslie 
had feared that the audience would not be sufficient to fill the large 
concert-room in the Town Hall. 

Anxious glances were given towards the door at eight o’clock, but 
no Vicar appeared. Mr. Rowen was present, though no persuasions 
would induce him to advance beyond the door-mat. Although Mr. 
Leslie was evidently doing his utmost, the arrangements were de- 
cidedly primitive. 

In full view of the expectant audience, a toilet looking-glass was 
brouMit through the concert-hall, and deposited in the little room be- 
hind^the platform. Some minutes later a grocer’s boy appeared, 
bearing a basket of bottled ale and stout, which he took in triumph 
to the retreat before mentioned; and oh, worse than all, behind him 

3 


34 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


came a pot-boy, carrying a large can, which could not be mistaken 
for other than malt liquor! 

“ It is lemonade, Miss Hatton.” said Mr. Leslie, mendaciously, in 
passing. “ But why in the world have they brought everything so 
late?” he mentally ejaculated. 

“ And this is your teetotal Vicar!” said Mr. Campbell. 

“I can’t imagine why they want so much to drink,” replied Miss 
Hatton. ‘ ‘ At the Choral Society ” (for a Choral Society was now an 
accomplished fact) “ we sing at the top of our voices for two hours 
continuously, without any refreshment whatever.” 

A woman carrying teacups and saucers now went up the room. 

“ More to drink!” exclaimed Mr. Campbell. “ My gracious!” 

“ As none of the performers are to sing more than two songs each, 
I should not have thought so much refreshment necessary,” remarked 
Ethel. 

“My husband is always afraid of not providing enough,” replied 
Mrs. Leslie; “it won’t come out of the concert funds — he pays for it 
himself.” And in truth he was a most generously disposed man. 

The audience now began to wax impatient. 

At a quarter-past eight Mr. Leslie went on to the platform, and 
announced that the Vicar had been suddenly summoned to London 
on pressing and unexpected business, and was very sorry he could 
not be present. 

A feeling as of a wet blanket at once overspread the assembly. 

“I really think he might have been here,” said Mrs. Allen. 

‘ ‘ Clergymen have not much to do ; and I am sure he need not have 
gone to London. I dare say he is there to enjoy himself.” 

“I am sure he is not,” said Miss Hatton, indignantly. 

“Clergymen little to do?” echoed Mrs. Leslie, in amazement. 
“ I know of no men who have so much to do. In addition to their 
physical and mental work, which is very arduous, they have — ” but 
here she paused, knowing she could not speak of the weight of 
spiritual care an earnest clergyman always bears on his mind to such 
a woman as Mrs. Allen. 

“ You will find yourself in the wrong box, mother, if you speak 
against the Vicar,” said young Mr. Allen, a happy-looking, stout 
young man, and a great admirer of Miss Ethel Hatton’s. 

To Ethel, as to all the company, the Vicar’s absence had been most 
unexpected; she knew the evening would be a blank to her, but she 
went on laughing and talking. 

A jmung lady came forward and played a piece on the piano. It 
was a very mild performance, and the audience listened in melan- 
choly resignation. 

Then Mr. Leslie, who showed a gallant front in spite of all diffi- 
culties, announced that he was extremely sorry to say that two of their 
principal performers had not come at all, and that a third had so 
bad a cold, owing to the damp evening, as to be quite inaudible. 
Something between applause and groaning followed this declaration, 
on the part of the audience. He hoped, however, continued Mr. 
Leslie, that the deficiency would be satisfactorily supplied by three 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


35 


gentlemen who had kindly volunteered to sing and recite at a 
moment’s notice, A feeble rapping of umbrellas took pluce, ceasing 
on the appearance of a lady and gentleman on the platform, who in- 
formed the audience in different keys, and shockingly out of tune, 
that they were both in search of a kindred spirit with whom to 
dwell, 

“It’s perfectly awful,” said Miss Hatton, “Whatever you do, 
don’t applaud, Mr, Campbell, or we shall have it all over again, ” 

“It’s jolly,” returned that young man, who was a very fair mu- 
sician, “I had no idea I should be entertained so much; they 
must have finished on F sharp instead of G- natural,” 

A reaction had now seized on the audience, who now felt an in- 
sane desire to laugh on the first opportunity that presented itself. 
They listened with struggling gravity to a young man, one of the 
volunteers, who sung to them of his “love,” and his “dar-r-ing” 
frame; but when a stout, lugubrious gentleman replaced him, and 
began in most pathetic tones to recite a piece treating of the woes 
of human nature— and intended to be eminently pathetic — the sup- 
pressed merriment burst forth; during the entire recitation there was 
one continuous roar, Mr, Campbell laughed until the tears rolled 
down his face. “ It’s glorious,” he exclaimed, “Look at the old 
fellow’s long face now,” 

The performer was highly offended, and altogether declined to 
take any part in the proceedings that were to follow. “You must 
cut out my piece,” he said, grimly, to Mr. Leslie, who was beginning 
to think that the stars in their courses were fighting against him. 
At his instance the audience clamorously demanded an encore, which, 
although not acceded to by the unfortunate reciter, did much to 
pacify him. 

“An assembly exclusively composed of ladies and gentlemen 
ought to behave better,” remarked Mrs. Allen. 

“ Why, that’s the very reason we needn't behave ourselves,” re- 
turned Miss Hatton; “we all feel like a family party now; I never 
knew such a friendly congregation. ” 

The aspect of affairs was becoming serious to Mr. Leslie. Only 
one half of the allotted time was over, and only two more perform- 
ers were to sing. He felt half inclined to tell the people to set aside the 
forms and finish the evening with a dance, but was not sure whether 
the Vicar would approve of this arrangement, so he manfully threw 
himself into the breach, and said that he would recite a comic piece. 
It proved a very comic business ; the exigencies of the piece demanded 
a certain amount of acting, to which Mr. Leslie did full justice. 
The audience, having been previously wound up, laughed until they 
could laugh no longer. Admiral Hatton was delighted ; he said he 
did not know when he had enjoyed himself so much. 

“ I had no conception that the entertainment would be so thorough- 
ly frivolous,” said Mrs. Allen; “and a church entertainment, too! 
I am quite disgusted.” 

“ The Vicar would have laughed as heartily as any one, had he 
been here,” replied Mrs. Leslie. 


36 


THE BACIIELOK VICAR OF NEAVFORTH. 


‘ ‘ Perhaps ; that does not raise the character of the proceedings. ” 
“Come, mother,” remonstrated her son, “it really wasn’t so bad 
as all that. I think we have had a very jolly evening, and we have 
the satisfaction of knowing that we shall hand over a good sum as 
the proceeds to the Vicar ” (for young Mr. Allen was very active in 
parish affairs). 

It is simply church dissipation,” returned Mrs. Allen. 

“ Anyhow,” said Miss Hatton, “we shall go home without feeling 
that Ave have been doing something wrong, Avhich is more than can 
be said for many other forms of enjoyment. I quite agree with Mr. 
Allen that it has been a very jolly evening.” 

“First-rate,” said Mr. Campbell. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A FRIENDLY VISIT. 

A CERTAIN gravity had been perceptible about the Vicar ever since 
his sudden journey to London. He was equally indefatigable in his 
work, equally charming in society; but to Ethel Hatton, who had 
begun to study and understand his moods, it was evident that some 
cloud was over him. 

How, subtile comprehension is one of the mysteries of love, and 
many and many of the delicate intricacies of thought communicated 
themselves from his mind to her, entirely unknown to the world at 
large. There was no special talent about this girl, but there was a 
deep wealth of affection; and the Vicar always felt, between her and 
himself, a close spiritual affinity. He scarcely ever saw her alone, 
but he knew, as well as if he had been told so in language, that there 
was a strange sympathy between them. As yet he had not told him- 
self that he loved her; but that he liked her better than any one else, 
and believed in her and respected her, he had told himself often. 
Whenever any new scheme arose in his mind, his first thought was 
that he would tell her of it. It was not that he thought she could 
assist him, or influence him— he knew well that her mind took its 
tone from his — but that he liked to tell her of it. 

Calling one day at Admiral Hatton’s, and finding no one in the 
drawing-room, he idly took up a volume of Tennyson’s earlier works, 
which lay on the table. There were pencil-marks on the page at 
which it opened, and a scent of lemon plant hung about the book. 
The poem was “Fatima.” He read some of it aloud with a great 
deal of unconscious sarcasm in his voice : 

“O love, love, love ! oh withei iug might ! 

0 sun that from thy nboii-day height 

Shuddereat when I strain my sight, 

Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light ; 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parched and withered, deaf and blind, 

1 whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


37 


<««»•« 

I will grow round him in his place, 

Grow, live, die looking on his face — 

Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.” 

“ It is tolerably strong language,” said the Vicar, turning over the 
leaves. More pencil-marks attracted his attention, and this time he 
laughed. 

The poem was “ Eleanore:” 

“ Soon from thy rose-red lips my name 
Fioweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 

With dinning sound my ears are rife. 

My tremulous tongue faltereth ; 

I lose my color, I lose my breath, 

I drink the cup of a costly death, 

Brimm’d with delirious draughts of warmest life, 

I die with my delight, before 
I hear what I would hear from thee ; 

Yet tell my name again to me, 

I would be dying evermore. 

So dying ever, Eleanore.” 

The Vicar closed the book. 

“And we grow out of all this,” he said, musingly; “and are we 
better or worse? — better for losing our dreams? sadder for seeing 
things more as they are? yet, even now, through a glass darkly, how 
darkly yet.” 

Miss 'Hatton came in. 

“ I am so sorry we have kept you waiting, Mr. Manley,” she said, 
brightly; “the others will be in soon, and I have only just come in 
from a walk; the servants did not know I was out.” 

She removed her hat and jacket as she spoke, and rang for tea. 
Her rich color glowed in the firelight; her eyes sparkled; she was 
unfeignedly glad to have a tete-d-tete with the Vicar. She gave him 
a cup of tea, and sat down opposite to him. 

“ If I were to accept all the tea offered me, I should never have 
tea at home,” he said, smiling; “ but I will not refuse this, although 
I have just been taking tea with Mrs. Stevens, at Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“ You take tea with a widow! Oh, Mr. Manley, how very improp- 
er !” 

Now, Mrs. Stevens was a hard-featured, homely-looking woman, 
of some fifty years of age. 

“ I often have tea at the Cove,” said the Vicar; “the people like it. 
I had a very good tea to-night, although the china was somewhat 
thick. Bread and butter, shrimps and watercress.” 

“You shouldn’t have eaten shrimps, Mr. Manley,” returned Miss 
Hatton, laughing. '‘No one can eat shrimps and look dignified.” 

“ I do not know that I am anxious always to look dignified, but I 
assure you that shrimps, dissected on scientific principles, may be 
eaten without any loss of self-respect, always provided that you may 
wash your hands afterwards.” 

He extended his hands to the blaze; in spite of his constant out- 
door work, they were very white. 

“Every man to his taste,” said Miss Hatton. 


38 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“Talking of taste, whose mental pabulum is this?” he asked, 
pointing to the volume of Tennyson. 

“That is Ethel’s; she is a very romantic little thing.” 

“Indeed!” and the Vicar found himself wondering whether, under 
any circumstances whatever, she would apply the high-flown poetry 
to him; he rather hoped she would not. 

“ Are not you romantic. Miss Hatton?” he asked, with a smile. 

“ I am not, indeed. I like tangible comfort, instead of imaginary 
bliss. Now, I call this comfort.” 

“ Do you refer tp the tea, the fire, or the society?” 

“The tea and the fire would scarcely be appreciated without the 
society.” 

The Vicar was wary, hut a glance at the girl’s honest, frank face 
convinced him that he need not be on his guard. He began to talk 
to her on church matters,, more especially about his cherished scheme 
— the chancel window, which had now been commenced. 

Both the church-wardens had expressed themselves amazed at the 
manner in which the money was being raised, apparently without 
effort. 

“I hope the window will be finished soon after Christmas,” said 
IVIr. Manley; “and, what is more, paid for. I think it will be a very 
beautiful work of art.” 

“I hope it will not be so beautiful as to be beyond our compre- 
hensions. Something quite too-awfully too-too. ” 

“ It will not be beyond our comprehensions,” replied the Vicar, 
gravely. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Manley; I ought not to have said it,” 
said the girl, frankly. “ I did not fnean to be irreverent, it was only 
a tribute I was paying to your aesthetic tastes.” 

He smiled. “I cannot but accept an apology so readily and 
spontaneously offered.” 

“ The Parish Magazine is a great success,” said Miss Hatton, anx- 
ious to change the subject. 

“I think it is ; it barely pays its expenses, but that is a secondary 
consideration.” 

An expression of great amusement passed over her face; she be- 
gan to laugh. 

“What do you find to amuse you so much?” 

“ If I tell you, I shall shock you again; I was thinking of what 
you said in the Magazine^ 

“What did I sa}’^?” 

“You won’t be angry?” 

“ I will not.” 

“ It was your account of Mr. Rowen’s sermon — a sermon I heard 
with my own ears.” 

“What can you find to laugh at in Mr. Rowen’s sermon?” asked 
the Vicar, with some disapproval in his voice. 

“I am not laughing at his sermon. His sermon was— well, I 
don’t know what it was; but to read your prhis of it in the Parish 
Magazim, one would have imagined it was beautiful.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


-39 


“ I still fail to see any cause for merriment.” 

“There isn’t any real cause,” replied Miss Hatton, somewhat dis- 
concerted; “it only reminded me of a passage in one of Black’s 
books — that is all. ” 

“ What was that?” 

“Where some gentleman came in, and was understood to make 
inquiries after another gentleman’s health, but what he mid was, 
‘ Haw-yaw?’ That is like the difference between Mr, Rowen’s ser- 
mon and your account of it.” 

“I cannot submit to be criticised thus,” said the Vicar, cheer- 
full}", “and I won’t have a word said against Mr. Rowen; he is a 
genuinely good man, even if he is not a particularly good preach- 
er.” 


CHAPTER VIH. 

ECONO^rV. 

Christmas had come and gone. It had been a bright, merry, old- 
fashioned Christmas; the snow lying on the ground, but the sun 
brilliant. 

Little had been done in the way of decoration at the parish 
church, it was so large: but that little had been in accordance with 
nature, the Vicar disliking everything artificial. So the young men 
and the young ladies had hung up boughs of holly and evergreens 
and mistletoe, and placed growing flowers in pots round the pulpit, 
communion-table, and font, and that was all. 

But the work had been done heartily and cheerfully; the Vicar 
had assisted personally, with a kind smile on his face ; and even the 
tall, thin, and melancholy curate had been so far enlivened as to 
make a joke about the number of ladies, and the small amount of 
work there was to do. 

But there had been plenty of work outside the church. There 
had been school prizes given, and warm clothing and food for the 
poor, and parish teas, and various entertainments of dissolving views 
and magic-lanterns. 

It was no part of Mr. Manley’s scheme to pauperize the parish, 
and encourage the able-bodied poor to accept relief when they were 
in a position to work ; also, he was of opinion that even their amuse- 
ments should be, as a rule, self-supporting. But at Christmas-time 
he held that this rule should be set on one side, and that all should 
endeavor to give with both hands liberally. 

But another matter was now sorely troubling him; this was that 
he was now personally quite unable to give to the charities with the 
generosity which had characterized all his previous dealings. He 
felt this keenly. 

He had taken more than one journey to London, on each occasion 
returning with a cloud on his face, with a line of care on his brow. 


40 


THE BACHELOR YlCAR OF NEWFORTH. 


His voice lind taken a deep, pathetic ring, especially in church, or 
when speaking on thoughtful subjects. 

It was after one of those journeys to town that he sent for his 
cook, Mrs. Jonson, and informed her that, having a large payment 
to make — a most imperative payment — he found himself most re- 
luctantly compelled to reduce his own and his household expen- 
diture in every possible manner, and should therefore be forced, 
greatly against his will, to part with her and the housemaid, replac- 
ing them by one general servant. (He could not avoid wincing as 
he said this, it was so very disagreeable; but it was a duty.) 

“What did you say, sir?” asked Mrs. Jonson, in indignation. 
“Part with mee me, as has done the best I could for you ever since 
I have been in your service, and has looked on you, as one may say, 
as a son.” (The Vicar’s age was thirty-five, that of Mrs. Jonson 
forty.) 

“I have fully appreciated your faithful service, Mrs. Jonson, and 
your unvarying kindness to me,” he replied, gently. “Believe me, 
I am not taking this step because 1 have any fault whatever to find 
either with you or with Sarah. I am doing it because, for some 
little time, I am obliged to save expense in every way possible. For 
yourself, I have alwa 3 ^s considered your services by no means ade- 
quately repaid, in actual money value. I am quite aware of your 
kindly feeling towards me.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied Mrs. Jonson, with determination; “then 
I can tell you I’m not going. Sarah Jane may go, and welcome; 
she has always been more trouble than enough, being that extrava- 
gant and that careless, and I shall do quite as well without her. 
Who will cook you nice little dishes for supper when you come 
home, unexpected-like, if I go? A general servant, indeed! No, 
sir, I ain’t a-going!” 

The Vicar was much gratified. 

“ I am very glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Jonson,” he said, much 
relieved. “I should have missed you sorely had you left me. It 
is very good of 3 'ou.” 

He sighed as he thought how much unpleasantness his perforced 
economy was entailing on others. 

“Don’t take it to heart, sir,” said Mrs. Jonson, cheerfully; “and 
if I may make so bold, I. don’t wish to take so much wages now. 
Servants are cheap here, and many and many a cook I know does 
not get eighteen pounds a year. I shall be quite satisfied with 
twelve.” 

But this her master would not hear of. 

Lent was now coming, and the various church entertainments 
were to conclude for the present. Owing to pressure of business, 
the Vicar had requested Admiral Hatton to organize the second con- 
cert, at which, however, he would preside, himself taking the man- 
agement of the third. But although ostensibly under Admiral Hat- 
ton’s direction, the entire work was undertaken by his daughter 
Gertrude. 

Warned by the failures of the preceding entertainment — which 


/ 

THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 41 

failures had been a source of great though unexpressed annoyance 
to Mrs. Leslie — she had secured an ample supply of talent, and, to 
guard against any non-appearance of the performers, had taken care 
that there should be two or three people in the room who could 
sing, if called on. 

The refreshment supply, too, was much more limited, consisting 
only of tea and lemonade, and the looking-glass was taken into the 
room before the audience arrived. 

On this point Mr. Leslie was very wroth. 

“ I told the fellows over and over again,” he averred, “that ev- 
erything was to be sent in early; you will have the pull of me, Miss 
Hatton.” 

As in this case she had, for the concert was a decided success; so 
much so, that it was resolved to engage the large Town Hall for 
the final entertainment, which, when it at length came off, was more 
than a success. Every seat was occupied at a quarter to eight ; the 
Vicar and Mr, Leslie spent almost an hour in striving to place 
chairs in every available space after the concert had begun ; and 
finally, the platform itself being crowded, a number of people spent 
the evening in the doorways and passages, Mr. Leslie telling them 
he was extremely sorry, but all he could say was, he hoped they 
would imagine they were at a promenade concert. 

At the close of the evening he, addressed the audience, thanking 
them for their support, and afterwards spoke in such high terms of 
Mr. Manley — more especially alluding to his unvarying kindness to 
every one — that the unfortunate Vicar, who was sitting on the plat- 
form, turned sharply round and leaned his head against his hand, 
his profile only being visible, his cheek one vivid crimson. 

He was a man of extreme delicacy as \vell as depth of feeling, and 
this open tribute was to him almost painful. Ah, if he had fore- 
seen how variable is human judgment, and how soon the verdict of 
Newforth w'ould be reversed. Happily, he could not see into the 
future. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE WINDOW. 

Lent passed away quietly. The Vicar was a most thorough and 
earnest churchman, but he held no extreme views. He contented 
himself with increasing the services and addresses, and urging his 
congregation to give up for a time the distractions of the world, in 
order that they might have more time and inclination for pray- 
er, meditation, and general earnest thought and action in doing 
good. 

And at the close of Lent his beautiful chancel window was fin- 
ished; it was to be first displayed on Easter Sunday. But, on the 
Saturday preceding, he thought he should like Ethel to see it before 
any one else; that he should wish to show it to her himself. He 


N 

42 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEAVFORTH. 

scarcely knew how to manage this, but walked towards Admiral 
Hatton’s house, trusting to a chance opportunity. 

The first person he met was Mr. Campbell, who was also going 
to the Admiral’s house, though coming from a different direc- 
tion, 

“You are the very person I wished to see, Mr. Manley,” said the 
younger man. “I have to announce an approaching visitor to 
you.” 

“Indeed, who' is that?” 

“ A very old friend of yours, a Mr. Yorke.” 

“Mr. Yorke!” repeated the Vicar, his eyes sparkling with pleas- 
ure. “ I shall be indeed glad to see Mr. Yorke; he was one of my 
best friends. Where did you see him?” 

“I have been staying for a few days with the Vincents, at Orton, 
and met him there. He and his wife have iust come from Austra- 
lia.” 

Now, Orton was some twenty miles from Newforth, and in the 
same county. Captain Vincent was county member, and was a 
man of considerable wealth and importance. Mr. Campbell, a man 
of good connections, was distantly related to Captain Vincent. 

“ I shall be delighted to see Mr. Yorke,” said the Vicar again, as 
well as he could make himself heard for a most discordant brass 
band that was playing. “I had lost sight of him for a long while. 
When is he coming?” 

“ Some day next week. He knew you would be very much taken 
up just at Easter, I happened to mention one day to Mr. Yorke, 
who, with his very pretty wife, is staying at Templemore, that the 
parson’s name at Newforth was IVIanley, and then he questioned me. 
He seemed equally pleased to hear about you.” 

“ I have never seen his present wife. I knew the first Mrs. Yorke 
slightly.” 

“She is extremely pretty,” returned Mr. Campbell, “though I 
prefer Mrs. Vincent.” 

“I do not know Mrs. Vincent,” replied the Vicar. “Really, I 
think that band is a disgrace to the town. ” 

“I wonder you don’t take it in hand,” returned Mr. Campbell; 
“you seem king of Newforth.” 

Miss Ethel now came down the road, and stopped to speak. 

“Well met!” said the Vicar. “Will you come with me to see 
the new window?” 

“ Oh, yes; I should like it above all things,” returned Ethel. 

“Am I included in this invitation?” asked Mr. Campbell. 

“To be frank,” replied the Vicar, with a smile, “ you were not.” 

“ Honesty is the best polic}",” said the young man, “ I will take 
myself off at once.” 

“But,” resumed the Vicar, “I shall be extremely pleased to show 
it to you on any other occasion.” 

“To be frank,” retorted the young man, “I don’t think I care 
about seeing it. Now, would you care about seeing my ship?” 

“Very much,” replied Mr. Manley, promptly and unexpectedly. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


43 


“All right; then we’ll get up a party to go there,” said Mr. Camp- 
bell. “Now, I’m off.” 

“There’s something up between your sister and the Vicar,” he re- 
marked to Miss Hatton. “ I was coolly told to take myself off.” 

“I am inclined to think that there is something up, though I know 
he has not proposed to her. ” 

“ Do you think she will have him?” 

“ I assure you we should all marry him were he to ask us,” re- 
turned Miss Hatton, with a laugh. 

“ I think it’s about time I went, after that.” 

“You will please to remember that, as far as I know, he has no 
intention of asking all the young ladies of Newforth to marry him.” 

“ Oh, bother it!” 

“That is rude.” 

“I will apologize, if Mrs. Hatton will ask me to stay to dinner.” 

“Dinner!” echoed Admiral Hatton, who had been quietly asleep 
in his arm-chair at the other end of the room. “ Of course you will 
stay to dinner.” 

“ There is hashed mutton and plum-pudding for dinner; you don’t 
like hashed mutton, Mr. Campbell, do you, any better than ‘hashed 
Vicar ’? You see I haven’t forgotten your rude speech.” 

“ I like anything I can get, so long as I may stay.” 

“You may stay,” said Miss Hatton, graciously. 

Meantime the Vicar and Ethel were walking towards the church. 
It was a bright, cold, clear day, the tracery of the bare branches was 
beautiful against the blue sky. Ethel’s color was high, her face 
glowed with health and pleasure. 

“ She is lovely to-day,” said the Vicar to himself. 

The sea was rolling on the sands in great waves; its roar reached 
them at the church gates; the distant vessels were tossing up and 
down. 

“ How I love the sound of the sea,” said Ethel; “it speaks to me 
in actual language.” 

“ There is no doubt,” he replied, “that three-fourths of the world 
go through it in ignorance of the vivid imaginations and deep in- 
tellectual sympathies of the remaining quarter. You are imagina- 
tive, perhaps too much so for your own comfort.” 

“But,” she returned, quickly, ‘'you can understand me; for you 
are also imaginative. ” 

“ It is one of my duties to keep my imagination under control. 
I hope I do not treat you to sermons consisting of speculative theo- 
ries, rather than truths.” 

“ Oh, no,” said the girl, warmly. “ I wish you would let me tell 
you what I do think of your sermons.” 

They were standing in the churchyard, so full now of graves that 
burials were no longer permitted there, but no longer untidy and 
neglected. 

She pointed to a cross standing at the head of one of the more re- 
cent graves, bearing the inscription, “lam the Way, the Truth, and 
the Life.” 


44 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“I think,” she said, gravely, “that your sermons teach us that.” 

“It is all I wish to teach,” he replied, quietly. 

He now proposed that they should enter the church. He was 
pleased that the conversation had taken this serious tone; he did not 
wish his window, the glory of his heart, to be seen in a light mood 
for the first time. 

He watched her as she first raised her eyes to the chancel, he 
watched her as she advanced slowly up the aisle and stopped on 
reaching the steps. 

He was thankful that she did not exclaim, “ I like it so much,” or, 

“ It is so pretty,” or anything of that sort." 

She looked in silence for some five minutes, her color coming and 
going, her face full of expression, and then she turned to him wdth a 
light in her eyes : 

“ I think, Mr. Manley, that it is perfect” 

The window was divided into three compartments; the centre 
represented the Sermon on the Mount; the two sides, Peter walking 
on the Sea of Galilee, and Paul bidding farewell to the brethren. It 
was a work of high art; the subjects occupied scarcely more than 
one-half of the glass. Tlie upper portion consisted of delicate tracery 
which seemed to melt away into air, conveying the idea of unlimited 
space. It was a very beautiful conception. 

The Vicar explained the subjects, and then asked what it was that 
she so particularly admired in it. 

“It is this,” she replied; “it is not what you see, it is what you 
can imagine about it.” 

“What does it remind you of?” 

“It reminds me of Heaven,” she answered, simply. 

He made no reply. A higher tribute he knew could not be paid. 

The communion-table was already decorated with white flowers 
for Easter. 

“ They are very beautiful,” she said, pointing to them. “ I hope 
there will be a fine day to-morrow, as so many people will come.” 

“ 1 think it will be fine.” 

‘ ‘ But there are always a number of communicants, whether on 
Sundays or weekdays; how is it, Mr. Manley, when there used to be 
so few? — and yet you never find fault with them for not coming, or 
anything of that sort.” 

“People do not come because they are found fault with,” he re- 
plied, with a smile. “It is time for us to be going.” 

He locked the door after them and looked up at the short tower. 

“We must get the spire up soon. It is now Easter Eve; we will 
have the vane flying, I hope, by next Christmas.” 

“It will take so much money,” said Ethel, 

“ I think we shall do it.” 

“You must get some rich man to pay for it.” 

“ Oh,” said the Vicar, quickly, “ I think it would be so much nicer 
if we were to do it ourselves.” 

“ There are not many months to Christmas. As you say. Lent is 
over; but, oh, Mr. Manley,” she continued, laughing, “you were de- 


THE BACHELOK VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


45 


termined to inflict sortie penance on your congregation during Lent, 
and I must sav that you selected a form that was very real.” 

inflicted penance?” he repeated, in astonishment. “What 
was it?” 

Now, during Lent the Vicar had obtained the services of various 
clergymen from distances; they had preached for him continually; 
indeed, he scarcely ever was in the pulpit himself. 

“ The penance was depriving us of your sermons, and I must say 
I wish you had selected any other form.” 

“Do you know that you are trying to flatter me? I know that I 
ought sternly to rebuke you; but somehow,” he continued, with a 
smile, “ I do not feel in the humor for rebuking you just now.” 

“ I should not mind your rebuke,” she answered. 

“ Then I will not aduiinister it. But suppose,” he added, “ it was 
a penance to me not to preach in my own church; for I feel it as 
such.” 

“Will you come in?” she asked, at their garden gate. 

“No, thank you, not to-day?” 

A warm, delicious sense of pleasure was over Ethel as she slowly 
removed her outdoor clothing in her room, and adorned herself for 
dinner. She pinned some violets into her dress, and went down- 
stairs, her beautiful eyes soft with pleasure. 

“And how has the love-making progressed?” asked Mr. Camp- 
bell, who was sitting over the fire with Admiral and Mrs. and Miss 
Hatton. 

“Love-making?” said Ethel, indignantly, stopping short in the 
middle of the room. “Love-making? and from the Vicar? How 
dare you, Mr. Campbell?” 

“ I apologize,” said the young man, negligently. “ I thought, as I 
had known you ever since you were as high as the table, that I might 
venture on a joke. And, pray, why shouldn’t your Vicar make love 
as well as any other man? He isn’t a saint; he is only a man, I 
suppose.” 

“No quarrelling,” said the Admiral, good-humoredly. “You 
young people are always at it. I suppose it’s another name for 
friendly conversation.” 

“Just so, sir,” replied Mr. Campbell, who never for one moment 
lost in respect to his superior officer, independently of the Admiral 
being so much his senior; “ you are quite right.” 

“You shouldn’t have said it,” remarked Miss Hatton, in a low 
voice. “Ethel is so much vexed.” 

Mr. Campbell pulled his beard impatiently, and took out his watch. 

“Isn’t it getting time for the hashed mutton?” he asked. Now, 
Mr. Campbell hated hashed mutton, as Miss Hatton very well knew. 

“ I think we are going to do a little better for you than that,” she 
replied, brightly; “so don’t be cross,” 


46 


THE BACHELOK VICAK OE NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER X. 

REFORMATION. 

The Vicar had now been a year in Newforth, and a marvellous 
change had taken place in the town. 

The church was thronged and, to his special delight, largely at- 
tended by the poor, for whom some of the best seats were reserved. 
Every service was well attended, every offertory good. There were 
coal clubs and shoe club^ and clothing clubs; there were Young 
Men’s Associations and Young Women’s Associations; there were 
choral meetings, and choir meetings, and district visiting, and Bible 
classes, and children’s services, and National Church Schools, and 
mothers’ meetings, and Sunday-schools, and missionary meetings, 
and church entertainments, and parish libraries, and cricket and foot- 
ball clubs, and swimming-schools, and charities of all sorts— in 
connection with the trim, well-kept parish church, the neglected 
church of so short a time back. 

“We live in a whirl of gayety,” said Mr. Leslie. 

Every poor person was relieved, every sick and afflicted person 
visited, not necessarily by the Vicar or curate — for no two men could 
have done it all — but by some one. 

The staff of church workers was enormous; no sooner did one re- 
sign than another supplied his place. There were no quarrels, there 
were no dissensions; the Vicar was the head, and the others were 
content that it should be so. Even the verger was satisfied, although 
he had been heard to say that his work was now something awful, 
not at all like the easy life he led in Mr. Smith’s time, and that the 
Vicar did blow him up so if the people were not properly seated at 
the weekday services. 

“We are too heavenly,” said Mr. Leslie; “it won’t last, it can’t 
last — being, as we are, human beings.” 

He was right; it did not last. But for the present all was peace. 
Admiral Hatton was genially tolerant, Mr. Leslie active and most en- 
ergetic. In spite of his former asseveration that he could not bear 
missionaries, he had been known to hold the plate at some of the 
meetings, and, with his accustomed quickness, to order all the pro- 
ceedings. He had even been seen — though with the understanding 
that the fact was not to be made public — to take a class at the Sunday- 
school for some weeks, during the absence of the regular teacher. 

The trouble that had been hanging over the Vicar seemed to have 
lifted, his face had resumed its brightness, his severe economy had been 
given up, and another Sarah Jane had been installed at the vicarage. 

A great source of pleasure had now been afforded him in the so- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEAVFORTH. 


47 


ciety of Mr. and Mrs. Yorke. The former had been so much pleased 
with Newforth, on spending the day there, and so heartily glad to see 
Mr. Manley, that, with his wife’s cordial approbation, he had taken 
a furnished house on the Esplanade for the three summer months. 
They had lately come from Australia, and were to return thither 
again. They had one child, a very pretty little girl, and were, he 
thought, the happiest married couple he knew. 

There was only one thing wanting to complete the Vicar’s happi- 
ness ; it was to ask Ethel Hatton to become his wife, and this he de- 
termined to do on the first favorable opportunity. 


CHAPTER XI. 

NAVAL OFFICERS. 

It was a bright, warm day in June. The blue sky was flecked 
with little fleecy clouds, a gentle breeze was stirring. 

Admiral Hatton’s garden was in perfection, the roses were in full 
bloom. At the hall door were drawn up two dashing turnouts: 
Mr. Yorke' was on the box-seat of the one, his own mail-phaeton. 
Mr. Campbell prepared to mount that of the other. 

The long-talked of visit to his ship was now to take place, which, 
for one reason or another, had been so often postponed. He had in- 
vited Mr. and Mrs. Yorke, Mr. Manley and the two Miss Hattons 
(whom Mrs. Yorke w'as to chaperone) from Newforth, while he had 
also invited Captain and Mrs. Vincent from Templemore. They 
were all to lunch at the hotel at Seafort, and have tea on board. 
But Captain and Mrs. Vincent had replied that, as a IVIr. and :Mrs. 
Fortescue were staying with them, the party would be very large, 
and they would only come on condition that they should give the 
luncheon, although they would have great pleasure in taking tea on 
board at [Mr. Campbell’s invitation. 

“ Why, of course, they can give the lunch, if they prefer it,” that 
young man had exclaimed; “and welcome— rich people as they are! 
It had much better come out of their pocket than mine ; but, any- 
how, I’ll order it, and we won’t spare the champagne.” 

“Mind that there is coffee for Mr. Manley,” Miss Hatton had re- 
plied; “he won’t touch wine.” 

“ More fool he, ” returned Mr. Campbell. 

The order of going was now settled. The whole party would 
have preferred that Mr. Yorke should drive his wife, and that the 
other gentlemen should take the young ladies ; but, as propriety had 
to be considered and Newforth was given to scandal, it was decided 
that Mr. Yorke should take Miss Hatton, while Mrs. Yorke was to 
accompany Mr. Campbell. The expense of the second mail-phaeton, 
which was hired, was shared by the Vicar and Mr. Campbell. The 
latter felt it his duty to offer the reins to Mr, Manley; he was much 
relieved when they were refused. 


48 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“I thought 3’^ou liked driving, Mr. Manley,” said Ethel, beside 
whom he was seated. 

“ So I do; but there are times when I prefer uninterrupted conver- 
sation.” 

She looked pleased. She was looking her best, in an irreproacha- 
ble costume of dark blue (her favorite color), trimmed plentifully 
with gold braid ; a sailor hat completed the get-up. 

“ We all know the opinion entertained by the public of naval offi- 
cers’ horsemanship and driving,” said Mr. Campbell. “I hope I 
shall get you there all right.” 

“We are not at all afraid,” said Mrs. Yorke, who could drive as 
well as any one since she had been to Australia, her husband having 
taken most especial pains to teach her. 

“Be sure you wrap up well, my dears; it will be cold on the wa- 
ter,” said good Mrs. Hatton. 

Mr. Yorke raised his hat, and, taking the lead, went off with a 
flourish. 

Mr. Campbell turned to the Admiral. 

“By the way, sir, I forgot to tell you that Worsley’s ship is in; 
she arrived last night. I shouldn’t wonder if he were to come on 
board us to-day.” "'This piece of information hud been purposely 
withheld until Miss Hatton was out of hearing. 

“That fool,’ returned the Admiral, contemptuously. But Com- 
mander Henry W orsley was no fool. ‘ ‘ I tell you what it is, my 
lad,” continued the old man, pushing back his gray hair, “it’s no use 
for any man to wish to be my son-in-law who is ashamed of the 
queen’s service and of his uniform. ” 

This speech might have been considered suggestive, but it was ut- 
tered with the simplicity wdiich the old school of naval officers gen- 
erally possessed, although in conjunction with much practical shrewd- 
ness. For in his time the polished, somewhat cynical, aesthetic, 
learned, iron-clad type of officer had no existence; not a single spec- 
imen w^as to be found. 

He always believed that the young men who came to his house 
were in love with his daughters; but if this were the case, and al- 
though he had every wish to see them well married^ he certainly did 
not lend a helping hand towards this desirable consummation. No 
sooner did he see any young man in earnest conversation with either 
Gertrude or Ethel than, with a benevolent smile on his fine, rugged 
face, he would join them, without the remotest notion that his pres- 
ence at the time was other than desirable. 

Now, although the girls were greatly attached to their father, who 
looked on them both as prodigies of beauty and cleverness, it must 
be owned that this course of proceeding sometimes became a trial al- 
most too much for flesh and blood to bear, and Gertrude had more 
than once complained to her mother: 

“I wish you could give father a hint not always to come when 
there is something special going on. I know young Allen was on 
tne point of proposing to Ethel the other day in the garden, when 
father came up, and insisted on his talking about the war.” 


THE P.ACHELOR VTCAR OF NEWFORTH. 


49 


She might have added that the very same thing had happened to 
herself when, one day, she was deep in conversation with Captain 
Worsley. 

“Your father does enjoy being with you girls so much,” Mrs. Hat- 
ton had replied. 

“Oh, very well,” Gertrude answered, coolly; “but when our 
prospects are blighted forever you will have yourself to thank, you 
know. ” 

“They are not likely to be blighted just yet, my dear.” 

Now the Vicar was well aware of this predilection on the part of 
the Admiral, and had made up his mind that when he proposed to 
Ethel, which he purposed doing this very day, it should certainly not 
be either in Admiral Hatton’s house or garden. 

]\Ir. Campbell had raised his whip for a start when the old man 
checked him. 

“ Why are you not in uniform, you sir, as you are going aboard?” 

Now, Mr. Campbell was habited in gray, and had on a round hat 
of Tyrolean shape. 

“ Oh, come sir, there is a time for all things,” returned the young 
mau. “ I really couldn’t drive through Newforth in uniform— that 
is to say, not on a mail-phaeton. They would take me for one of the 
Four-in-hand Club, or, more probably, a railway guard or a pier- 
master.” 

“ So you are ashamed of your uniform also; you had better mind 
your i3’s and q’s, young man.” 

“I assure you I am not, sir,” replied Mr. Campbell, who saw he 
had put his foot in it; “ and I have already given orders to have my 
uniform at the hotel, so that I may dress there. Of course, I am go- 
ing on board in uniform — and a precious bore, too,” he muttered to 
himself. 

“I can’t for the life of me see why you shouldn’t be in uniform 
now,” retorted the Admiral, warmly, “ / never was ashamed of 
mine; why, at this present moment, I have some of it on,” he con- 
tinued, pointing to his trousers, the remains of his former outfit. 

“ Dark blue trousers are very fashionable, sir,” returned Mr. Camp- 
bell, with a laugh, in which Mrs. Yorke could not refrain from join 
ing, as the cut of the Admiral’s trousers was decidedly anything but 
fashionable. 

But, although there was a twinkle of humor in the Vicar’s eye, no 
smile was suffered to appear on his face. 

“Look at Mr. Manley there,” proceeded the Admiral, who had by 
no means relished the insinuation that he was wearing blue trousers 
because the}" were fashionable. “Look at Mr. Manley, he isn’t 
ashamed of his colors; you never see him, except in his black coat.” 

“But what could I wear?” the Vicar hastened to interpose; “I 
really have no other clothes except clerical ones.” 

“If this is going on, father, **’ said Ethel Hatton, “Gertrude and 
Mr. Yorke will arrive and finish their luncheon before we get there; 
I really think you must forgive Mr. Campbell for dressing to please 
himself.” 


4 


50 


THE BACHELOK VICAE OF NEWFOETH. 


The Admiral recovered his good-humor. 

“Have it your own way, my dear; a nice day of it you will have, 
you young people together.” 

“I wiir be responsible for your daughters,” said Mrs. Yorke, with 
a bright smile. 

“Get along!” returned the Admiral, who was now intimate with 
the Yorkes; “a young thing like you!” 

“But I will be responsible for Miss Ethel,” said the Vicar, in pur- 
suance of a plan he had determined on; “ and if you do not see her 
in good time this evening, you will know that I will account to you 
for her. You can drive un, Mr. Campbell,” he added, raising his hat 
to Mrs. Hatton. 

This speech opened even the eyes of the Admiral. 

“To think of that,” he ejaculated, as the phaeton disappeared, 
“and I never had any idea of it before this minute. Well, well, I 
suppose the girls must go some time or other, and I believe he is as 
good a man as ever lived.” 

“1 am sure of it,” returned Mrs. Hatton, warmly; “I wonder if 
he will speak to her to-day.” 

“What an extraordinary service the navy is I” said Mrs. Yorke, 
“I never can understand it.” 

“How so?” said Mr. Campbell. 

“Commanders are always called ‘Captain.’ What is that for, 
when ‘ Commander ’ is so much prettier?” 

“ Goodness knows — I don’t, Mrs. Yorke.” 

“And then there is relative rank, which always makes Admiral 
Hatton so angry.” 

“ Oh,” replied the young man, warmly, “ that is a most confounded 
shame. (I really beg your pardon, Mrs. Yorke.) Here am I, rank- 
ing with a major; and if I go to a party I’ll be hanged if every one 
there doesn’t think a vast deal more of some junior captain of a reg- 
iment than of me, because I am called Mr.” 

“But why do you rank with a major if you have no title — I mean, 
no title that you are addressed by?” 

“ The rule of the service, ” said Mr. Campbell, with an unpleasant 
shrug. “ I rank with a major, because I am of a certain seniority; a 
junior lieutenant ranks with a captain in the army.” 

“ It certainly ought to be altered,” said Mrs. Yorke, conscious that 
she herself had thought more of a captain in the army than of a cap- 
tain in the navy. ‘ ‘ And who does a captain in the navy rank with ?” 

“He ranks with a colonel. Not to bore you with too much de- 
tail, the ranks run broadly thus; 


Admiral s= 

Captain = 

Commander = 

Lieutenant = 

(according to seniority), 
Sub-Lieutenant = 

Midshipman = 


General, 

Coi.onel, 
Lieut.-Colonel, 
Major or Captain 

Lieutenant, 

J dniok-Lieutenant.” 


“ I really wonder, then, that they have not made the same titles of 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 51 

the same rank/’ said Mrs. Yorke. “You must forgive my igno- 
rance, Mr. Campbell.” 

“I would forgive your ignorance easily enough,” he returned, 
graciously; “but the worst of it is, it is nearly every civilian’s igno- 
rance. The navy has always been misunderstood,” he added, hav- 
ing in his heart a real love for his profession. 

“You must not say that,” said Mrs. Yorke, with a smile. “ I as- 
sure you we are very proud of our navy, and certainly, just now, of 
our naval brigade, which has done such good service. And who 
does the chaplain rank with?” 

“He has no rank. The chaplain has no rank,” repeated Mr. 
Campbell, in a loud tone of voice, evidently for Mr. Manley’s benefit; 
but, although the Vicar smiled, he apparently took no heed. 

They had left Newforth, and were on the high road which skirted 
the cliffs forming the shelter of Fisherman’s Cove. On their right 
was a thick wood, a beautiful wood, where wild strawberries grew, 
full of fine old trees and dense undergrowth, through which paths 
had been cut; a wood sloping gradually upward until it led, by 
winding ways, to the higher ground above. 

“Do you think you will be able to walk home from here after the 
day’s fatigues are over?” said the Vicar to Ethel, in a low tone. 

“lam sure I could, if necessary.” 

“ Will you walk home from this point with meV* 

She blushed slightly. 

“Yes, if you like, Mr. Manley,” she replied, in a voice that was al- 
most inaudible. 

“You will do so, knowing what I shall have to say to you, Ethel,” 
he returned, looking full into her down-dropped face. 

But she was saved from a reply by Mr. Campbell stopping the 
phaeton and shouting to Mr. Yorke, who, although driving slowly, 
pulled up with some difficulty, his horses being very fresh. 

“Why are we stopping?” asked the Vicar. “Is anything 
wrong?” 

“I suppose you will be very much shocked, Mr. Manley,” said 
Mrs. Yorke; “but I thought we had now made sufficient sacrifice to 
propriety, and, as I know Mr. Campbell is anxious to drive Miss 
Hatton, it occurred to me that she and I might change places.” 

But Mr. Campbell averred that he was not at all anxious to lose 
his companion, and would prefer going on as they were. 

Miss Hatton, on being appealed to on the same subject, declared 
that she had never enjoyed a drive so much in her life, and that she 
had had no idea how charming Mr. Yorke was. He took off his hat 
to her at this speech, with an amused look in his hazel eyes. He 
was a very handsome man, and, though devotedly attached to his 
wife, was by no means averse to driving a young lady looking so 
brilliantly handsome as Miss Hatton on that morning. 

Mrs. Yorke laughed. 

“You have my full permission to flirt, William,” she said; “for 
my part, I am very happy. In this world it never answers to make 
a martyr of yourself, for you get no thanks from any one. I simply 


52 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


made the proposal from a genuine regard to other people’s supposed 
feelings.” 

“lam quite sure of that,” said the Vicar, with a smile. 

“Why did we have a mail-phaeton to go so short a distance?” 
asked Ethel. 

“I left the arrangement to Mr. Campbell,” replied the Vicar. 
“He preferred it because Mr. Yorke has one.” 

“ Shall you have to return early?” 

“No; I am going to take a holiday to-day — a genuine whole hol- 
iday; the first I have had since I have been here. Mr. Rowen has 
kindly consented to do all my work. ^This is going to be a red-letter 
day, I hope, f 07 ' us both,” he added, after a short pause; “is it not, 
Ethel?” 

“I hope so,” she replied, looking away. 

At the hotel they found Captain and Mrs. Vincent, and Mr. and 
IVIrs. Fortescue. Mr. Campbell performed the necessary introduc- 
tions and went away, reappearing in an incredibly short space of 
time in uniform. 

“ How nice you look,” exclaimed Miss Hatton, who was not 
troubled with reserve in company; “doesn’t he, Mrs. Yorke?” 

IVIr. Fortescue smiled, and observed quietly that it was somewhat 
unfair for one member of a company to have so considerable an ad- 
vantage over the remainder; but, as that member was soon to be 
their host on board ship, he supposed they must fain submit to cir- 
cumstances with a good grace. 

Mrs. Yorke said that Mr. Campbell did look very nice, and that, 
for her part, she had always thought naval uniform veiy becoming. 

The luncheon was very good, and Mr. Campbell certainly did not 
spare the champagne. Indeed, the Vicar glanced at him once or 
twice with some anxiety, and Mr. Fortescue gave a sarcastic smile. 

The Vicar drank w^ater, and after luncheon took a cup of coffee. 

“You abstain on principle, I suppose?” said Mrs. Vincent, who, 
from old associations, loved clergymen generally, and had been 
greatly prepossessed in Mr. Manley’s favor by his appearance and 
manner. 

“Ido.” 

'' Pi'inciple !” said Mr. Campbell, with a sneer; “ I’m tired of hear- 
ing about principle; it’s humbug. There isn’t a single harmless 
gratification that a man wishes to indulge in but some one talks to 
him about principle.” 

The Vicar quietly ignored this speech, w^hich had been very rude- 
ly delivered. 

They were standing on the balcony of the hotel, which overlooked 
the sea. 

“You are so rude,” said Miss Hatton. “I give you fair warning 
I will not speak to you the whole of the day unless you apologize 
to the Vicar.” 

“Didn’t mean any offence to you, Mr. Manley,” said Mr. Camp- 
bell, sulkily, knowing that Miss Hatton would keep her word if he 
did not make some amends. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


53 


“I have taken no oifence,” said the Vicar, gravely. 

“ What ship is that lying off here?” asked Miss Hatton. 

Mr. Campbell evaded a reply 

“ AVhat ship is that?” 

“It isn’t a ship.” 

“ What steamer or what anything is that, then?” 

“ It is the Highflyer ; a gun-vessel.” 

“The Highflyer !” repeated Miss Hatton, her eyes sparkling. ‘ ‘ Oh, 
I am glad; why, that is Captain Worsley’s ship.” 

“I told you it wasn’t a ship. ” 

“ Whatever sails or steams, and has more than one mast, is a ship,” 
returned Miss llaUjn, with decision; “and I shall call it a ship. 
You must go and ask Captain Worsley to come on board the Vic- 
tonous ” (to which ship Mr. Campbell belonged). 

“I’ll be hanged if I will,” he replied. 

Mr. Fortescue saw that a quarrel was perilously imminent, and 
came forward. He objected to quarrels; they were bad form, and 
interfered with other people’s enjoyment. The-Vicar also objected 
to quarrels, but on other grounds; he remained silent, looking grave. 

“I speak with profound deference. Miss Hatton,” said Mr. For- 
tescue, being painfully conscious of rhy own ignorance, and know- 
ing that I am addressing the daughter of a naval officer ; but I should 
myself have thought that a ship might have been differently defined. 
Pray understand, though, that I am quite open to correction.” 

“You are quite right,” she replied, laughing, “I know I made 
a very absurd and foolish speech, because I was cross.” 

“Becomingly cross,” said Mr. Fortescue. “An angry woman 
has a flushed face, and sometimes talks louder tliands requisite; a 
young lady who is a little cross, perhaps with reason, is only pi- 
quante." 

“How nice it is to meet with men like you and Mr. Yorke and 
Captain Vincent, after living in a small town. With the exception 
of the Vicar I do not know any young man resident in the place who 
has a grain of manners,” said Miss Hatton, with perhaps more sin- 
cerity than wisdom. 

“See, Mr. Campbell,” said Mr. Manley, with the courteous man- 
ner habitual to him, “is there not a boat putting off from your ship?” 

“Yes,” returned Mr. Campbell; “it is the captain’s; I asked him 
to send it.” 

Now, it is unusual for a lieutenant to be allowed to send for his 
friends in the captain’s boat, an ordinary gig being the usual arrange- 
ment; but Mr, Campbell had taken the precaution to mention who 
his friends were, and the captain had himself suggested his boat, and 
stayed on board to receive them. Captain Vincent being a man of so 
much importance in all the county round. Though a member of no 
long standing, it had been rumored, and with truth, that the next 
vacancy in the cabinet would be offered to him. 

A lieutenant came on shore with the galley, although this honor 
was completely thrown away on the entire party, not one of whom, 
with the exception of Mr. Campbell, being aware that it Avas a com- 


54 


THE HACIIELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


pliment to them, and he would have preferred its being dispensed 
with. 

“This is a beautiful boat,” said Mrs. Vincent, looking at the gay- 
flags spread over the seats. 

The lieutenant, one Mr, Annesley, smiled. 

“Isn’t it a boat?” asked Mrs. Vincent, with a most winning smile. 
“I am very ignorant on such matters.” 

“ It is certainly a boat,” replied Mr. Annesley. 

“ I am given to understand, on the best authority,” said Mr, For- 
tescue, “ that the time-honored phrases and expressions attributed to 
the British navy are nothing more than pitfalls now, in which to en- 
trap unWary civilians who may use them into displaying their igno- 
rance. For my own part, I shall be quite ready to believe whatever 
I am told, and"! think it would be strongly advisable that I should 
not be told much. ” 

“You shall not be told too much, sir,” said Mr. Annesley, quite un- 
aware that Mr. Fortescue had taken many a voyage, even on board 
a man-of-war occasionally, and was thoroughly conversant with the 
usages of the navy. 

“Keep her away,” said Mr. Campbell, who was not steering; 
“ what are you going so near the Highflyer for?” 

But the caution came too late, they were close beside her; and, 
what was more. Captain Worsley himself was on deck watching the 
boat. He caught sight at once of the Misses Hatton, and took off 
his cap and waved it enthusiastically. 

“Are you going on board the Victorious V he asked, his face as 
bright as it well could be. 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Campbell. 

“I will be after you in a quarter of an hour,” he replied. 

Miss Hatton’s face had crimsoned, her e3’^es shone. “How little 
he is changed!” she said. “ How glad I shall be to see him.” 

“More naval men!” said Mr. Fortescue; “it is really rather hard 
on Mr. Manley, Mr. Yorke, and myself, who have not even been in 
the army.” 

“You shouldn’t say even in the army,” said Mrs. Vincent, who 
was very tenacious about her husband’s late service. 

“My dear Mrs. Vincent, I will say whatever you please, and will 
say it hoto you please, so long as I am not expected to say that I 
wish to be in the army or navy.” 

“ Or the church,” put in Mr. Campbell. 

“ Or the church,” said Mr. Fortescue, lazily. 

It was something, from disuse, almost in the nature of a new ex- 
perience to the Vicar to go into a society where the church was not 
the prominent subject of conversation, and he himself the most im- 
portant man present. He listened to the conversation in silence, and 
was conscious that he vastly preferred the society of two or three 
clever men to that of a mixed assembly, such as the present. He 
was not thinking of himself, but of Ethel now ; he wanted to be 
alone with her, and wmuld be glad when this should be the case. 

The captain and oflicers of the Victoiious received them with all 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


55 


that geniality and kindness so common to the navy. Under any cir- 
cumstances the ladies would have been paid attention, but they were, 
without exception, such remarkably pretty women that extra courtesy 
was bestowed on them. 

The captain requested that they would take tea in his cabin. 

“You shall do the honors, Mr. Campbell,” he said, genially. “I 
know it is your party.” 

“ It doesn’t seem much like it,” muttered that young man, inaudi- 
bly; “every one else seems to come before me.” 

And now Captain Worsley came on board, and was most cordially 
w'elcomed. He was a fine, smart-looking young man, with a brisk 
manner and gait, a keen, honest face, pointed nose, and fair hair. 
He was much addicted to fox-hunting, and always had a couple of 
hunters in his possession when in England. The ofiflcers on board 
the Victorious, whom he had not seen since his return from Africa, 
shook hands with him as if they would have wrung his hands off. 

Mr. Fortescue looked on with an amused smile. 

“There is only one drawback to naval ofifieers,” he remarked, 
quietly. 

“ What is that?” asked his wife. 

“They are so awfully glad to see you.” 

“ That 'is a fault on the right side,” remarked the Vicar. 

“Just listen,” said Mr. Fortescue. On all sides were heard, “ Aw- 
fully glad to see you, old man,” “Awfully delighted to welcome you, 
my boy,” and so on. 

“He must be a great favorite,” said Mrs. Fortescue, “and he is a 
very nice-looking young man.” 

Captain Worsley was now in full conversation with Miss Hatton. 

“How awfully well you are looking 1” he exclaimed. 

“And so are you.” 

“ Are you glad to see me?” 

“lam very glad,” and more to the same purport 

The afternoon was now drawing to a close. Mrs. Vincent sug- 
gested re-embarking, as they would have a long drive home. 

“ Where is the Vicar?” asked Miss Hatton. 

The Vicar was discovered on the lower deck, talking pleasantly 
to the men. and asking questions relative to the ship. 

“ You understand these matters better than I do, Yorke,” he said; 
“you have taken so many voyages. You have never told me any 
particulars of your sbipwu’eck on that desert island.” 

But this was a subject on which Mr. Yorke was by no means dis- 
posed to enter, his existence on the island having been the most 
miserable time of his life. 

“We have enjo3'ed our day very much, Mr. Campbell,” said Mrs. 
Vincent at the hotel to the young man, who w'as calling for more 
champagne; “and j^ou must come and see us soon at Orton.” 

But this invitation was not seconded by Captain Vincent, who con- 
sidered that Mr. Campbell had not behaved at all well. 

The champagne was brought, and refused by all the rest of the 
party. Mr. Campbell himself drank a tumblerful, 


56 


THE BACIIELOK VICAR OF NEWFOETH. 


Captain Worsley had accompanied the party ashore, and, uniform 
notwithstanding, asked if he could return with the Newforth people, 
in order to visit Admiral and Mrs. Hatton. 

“I will give you a seat with pleasure,” said Mr. Yorke. 

Captain and Mrs. Vincent, and Mr. and Mrs. Fortescue, then de- 
parted, but not before Mrs. Vincent had asked if they might, one 
day, be allowed to see the church at Newforth, and the beautiful 
window of which they had heard so much; to which the Vicar had 
responded with a most cordial assent. 

The order of going was once more to be decided on. Mr. Manley 
informed Mr. Yorke that he should feel obliged if he would drive 
himself and Ethel, leaving Mrs. Yorke and Miss Hatton to the care 
of the young men. But Mr. Yorke had been eying Mr. Campbell, 
and had decided that he was not in a fit condition to drive. 

He spoke a word aside to Captain Worsley. 

“I say, old fellow,” said the latter, “let me drive.” Now, he was 
a noted whip. 

“lam going to drive myself,” returned Mr. Campbell, rudely. 

“You can drive yourself” said Mr. Y"orke; “but you must excuse 
my remarking that I do not wish you to drive Mrs. Yorke.” 

“Who wants — ” he was beginning, when Captain Worsley put 
his hand on his shoulder, and shoved him out at the door. He 
turned round furious. 

“ It was only a joke,” said Captain Worsley, with good-humor. 

The Vicar now interposed. 

“Y"ou asked me it I would drive here, and I declined, Mr. Camp- 
bell. What do you say to sitting behind with Miss Hatton, and al- 
lowing me to hand over the reins — (for it is my turn to drive) — to 
Captain Worsley, whom Mrs. Yorke will accompany.” 

This speech had the desired effect : Mr. Campbell put Miss Hatton 
in, and got up grumbling. 

“You are behaving disgracefully,” she said; “if it were not for 
the example of Captain Worsley, and all those nice men we have 
seen to-day, I should really feel ashamed to think that you repre- 
sented a naval officer.” 

“Upon my word!” he replied, savagely; “how many more in- 
sults?” 

“Oh, I mean to speak,” returned the girl, quickly. “ Y"ou have 
had too much champagne, and you know it. If you taste one drop 
of anything except tea or coffee or water to-night, you shall never 
come to our house again.” 

This speech went a long way towards sobering Mr. Campbell, who 
knew that in Captain Worsley he had a most serious rival to fear. 

“Take the lead. Captain Worsley,” said Mr. Y^orke, instigated by 
the Vicar. 

He, Captain Worsley, drove off at a rattling pace, although he 
called the horses a couple of screws. 

“I hope you like fast driving, Mrs. Yorke,” he said. 

“I love it,” she rejoined. 

Mr. Y^orke’s horses were as fresh as in the morning, but he drove 


THE 13ACHEL0R VICAR OF NEW FORTH. 


57 


slowly, and allowed the other vehicle to get out of sight. Mr. Man- 
ley had confided to him his intentions, and at the entrance to the 
wood Mr. Yorke drew up. 

The Vicar lifted Ethel down. 

“Good-hye, Miss Ethel,” said Yorke, with a laugh in his eyes; 
“and, as my horses are so fresh, I think I will take them by the 
other road out of Newforth for a run, so that, if any accident should 
detain you on your road home, you will not be inquired for until 
they see me.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A DECLARATION. 

The sun was declining when the Vicar and Ethel entered the 
woods. They were such quiet woods; such lovel3^ lonely woods. 
The sunlight glinted through the boughs of the trees, which had not 
lost their fresh green tint. It was cool, sweet, and peaceful ; and as 
they gained the shelter of the thickets, and left the broad track for 
one of the narrow winding paths, he put out his hand and took hers. 

He did not speak, neither did she. For some time they wandered 
on, her hand in his, crushing the wild strawberries beneath their feet 
unheeded, and passing by ferns and bracken and bramble-bushes in 
full blossom. 

The birds were singing over their heads; the tall trees of elm and 
oak and mountain ash and horse-chestnut waved gently above them. 
Here and there they caught glimpses of the sea, far below. 

He did not wish to speak; she could not. But though there were 
no outward words, they were not silent; he knew that he was ex- 
pressing his thoughts as plainly as in language, and that she was 
answering them. There was perfect understanding between them. 
Now’ he realized, for the first time since he had attained his full 
manhood, that though a man may be a clergyman, though he may 
have schooled and disciplined himself in every way to resist tempta- 
tion, though he may even be a saint — yet that, when once the full 
tide of love sweeps over him, he is carried out of himself, and is ca- 
pable of speaking words which in his ordinary moments he would 
consider himself to be quite incapable of uttering. The Vicar knew 
that at this moment he could have repealed much of the Song of 
Solomon. He remained silent until they had reached an open glade, 
where the turf was short and crisp, and the trees almost formed a 
circle. And then he looked at her face, and as he looked he knew 
that love is given of God, and that there was neither sense nor reason 
in not enjoying to the uttermost that best gift of the Creator. His 
cares had all rolled away from him for the time, and he w’as rejoic- 
ing in his sense of the greatness and the holiness and the joy and the 
golden light of love. And then he took her in his arms, saying only, 
“My well-beloved!” 

Their imaginations were both now so far removed from the tangi- 


68 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

ble things of earth — their thoughts, owing to the witchery of the 
hour and the scene, so etherealized — that he felt he could not turn to 
her and say, “ Will you marry me?” neither was it necessary that he 
should; they were passing through an experience known generally 
but once in a lifetime — to many never known at all — the communion 
of spirit. And then he removed his arms, and, again taking her 
hand, led her gently upward through the narrow paths, until they 
had reached the brow of the hill, and the wide country opened in 
front of them. He told her to sit down. She did so, resting her 
head against the trunk of a tree; he threw himself down on the 
grass, leaning on one elbow. And then they both returned to 
realities. 

He turned his head, and saw the blue sea— so wonderfully, so 
marvellously blue — the sky-line meeting the waters imperceptibly. 
The vessels were passing and repassing. The scene was very lovely; 
the sun, now low, sending his brilliantly colored rays over the broad 
expanse of the wavelets. 

“Look, Ethel!” he said, gently. 

She turned and looked. * 

“ And now,” he said, with a glow on his face and a light in his 
eyes, “I will say what I ought to have begun by paying, but what 
you know perfectly well already: I love you, Ethel! Will you be 
my wife?” 

“You know I will/' she returned, placing her ungloved hand in his. 

“ I do know it. Have we not been talking to one another in the 
woods yonder?” 

“But that is like mesmerism,” she urged. 

“Whatever it is like, it has been an actual experience, has it not? 
Do you think, if I were to talk to you for half an hour, that you 
would understand me any better?” 

“No.” 

“Neither do I. I really think it has had its uses: it has taught 
me that we do not grow out of what I once thought we did; I even 
think I shall be able to understand that very — what shall I call it — 
that very intense poetry of yours.” 

“Oh, don’t call it intense,” she said, laughing, “because intense — 
I don’t use the word in its slang sense, but in its literal — intense 
people and things are generally so very uncomfortable.” 

“Are they? Well, although I am not a lover of poetry of the 
ardent kind— though I greatly appreciate some poetry which has 
deeper thought in it — a curious idea passed through my mind while 
we were in the wood.” 

“What was it?” 

“That one of these days — when we are married, perhaps — if I 
wanted to be quite sure of your unchangeable affection, I should like 
you to say to me three lines out of that very poem that I read in 
your drawing-room, and despised so much; they were 

“‘I will grow ronnd him in his place, 

Grow, live, die looking on his face, 

Die, dying clasped in his embrace.’ 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTU. 


59 


Now, who that knows me in this parish, or any other parish, could 
credit me with such an absurd desire?” 

“I. think my atfection will be unchangeable, Mr. Manley, even if 
I do not repeat the poetry,” said Ethel, with her eyes on the ground. 
“But ought we not to be going home?” 

“ I think not, I am sure not. It is my one holiday, remember; the 
only one in a year. To-morrow I must work, and dream no longer.” 

“And forget me?” 

“And not forget you; but I am not going to be foolish and senti- 
mental after to-day. I must try to be stern towards you.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Only lest in being good to you I should be good to myself — too 
good, I mean,” he said, smiling. “But I am afraid, if I try, I shall 
not succeed.” 

“You cannot but succeed in anything you try, Mr. Manley.” 

“Is it your intention to call me ‘Mr. Manley’ when we are mar- 
ried?” 

“ I don’t know,” she answered, coloring. 

“I have a Christian name, you know.” 

“ Oh,” she replied, energetically, “I couldn't say Theophilus.” 

“And is ‘Phil’ such a very difficult name to say?” he asked, the 
kind smile still on his face. ‘ ‘ I was always called ‘ Phil ’ when I 
was a boy; I am now by my relations.” 

“I think I could say ‘Phil,’” she answered, shyly. “ ‘Phil’ is 
such a nice name, I think; it is short and manly and easy to say.” 

“Say it, then.” 

“Yes— ‘Phil.’” 

“That was a very long pause.” 

“Because I want to tell you something and I don’t like.” 

“What is it?” 

“I have seen you nearly every day in church in your surplice, and 
there you look so— I can’t find the right word— it isn’t grand, and it 
isn’t imposing or handsome or lofty or intellectual, and yet it is a 
mixture of all these — in a sense, you know ; and you seem so unap- 
proachable, and yet here you are sitting down by me, just as if I 
were equal to you, and telling me you love me, and asking me to call 
you ‘Phil.’ I understand it.” 

“Do you think any human being ever does thoroughly understand 
the mysterious changes that love works? I know that even yester- 
day I did not. But if I am to be considered grand, and imposing, 
and intellectual, and unapproachable, and— handsome,” he laughed 
as he said the word, “ I shall have to be angry with you.” 

“Do you dislike it, really, Mr.— Phil?” she asked, earnestly, and in 
some trepidation. 

“I should dislike it very much from any other person, and con- 
sider it all nonsense ; but, though I know I ought to dislike it in 
you, somehow I— don’t.” 

“But perhaps you will expect me to understand theology and 
church matters and so many things, and I don’t understand them— 
Phil.” 


- 5 



60 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“I don’t think I want to marry a Mrs. Proudie,” he returned; “I 
only want my wife to love me.” 

“ No one will be able to do that better than I,” she said, earnestly, 
her heart shining in her eyes; “and I know that you are quite 
learned and intellectual, and theological and good, and kind enough 
for us both.” 

“This style of conversation I expressly forbid,” he said, with a 
smile. “ Seriously, Ethel, my darling, you must not put temptation 
in my way, by overrating me. You will hinder, and not help me.” 

“I will try not, Phil”— the word came so naturally now — “but 
it will be so 'cery difficult,” she said, earnestly. 

“Then, being your clergyman and spiritual head, and knowing 
that you acknowledge the authority of the Church to the uttermost, 
this is the penance I shall impose on you.” 

“I will try not,” she replied, humbly, “but — but — may I just tell 
you what I really do think of you perhaps once a 3’'ear?” 

The Vicar laughed. 

“Perhaps you may — say, on Christmas Day.” 

On the Christmas Day ensuing he thought of this speech in bitter- 
ness of spirit; she had told him what she thought of him before 
then. 

“And now I think we really must be going,” he continued, “for 
it is getting very late. But it may be a long time before I have so 
many hours with you again; we have been together all day, my 
darling. Now, before we go on to the upper path, where at any mo- 
ment we are liable to meet people, give me my first kiss. ” And as 
he kissed her he said again, “My well-beloved!” 

“Have you ever been in love before, Phil?” she asked, anxiously. 

“Well, yes,” he replied, smiling at her earnestness. 

“ With whom?” 

“That will be penance No. 2. I see you are jealous; you must 
try to curb your jealousy. (You see, I am not going to flatter you.) 
I was in love with a girl of ten when I was eleven years old — that 
was a very desperate affair; and I was in love when I was twentj»- 
with a widow of thirty-five ; that also was desperate, but not so des- 
perate.” 

“But you didn’t like them as well as me, Phil?” she asked, ap- 
pealingly. 

“It may seem a little ungracious, my darling,” he said, gravely; 
“but I do, at this first beginning of our engagement, bey you will not 
be jealous. Do you not kfww how much I love you? do you not 
know 7ne? If so, then, will there, can there, be any cause for jeal- 
ousy? As to the past, I have never loved any one so much as you; 
and, for the future, I do not think you need fear. Trust me, Ethel ; 
above all things, trust me.” 

“ I will, Phil, I trust you far before myself. ” And then she turned 
to hifn with a wistful look on her face, “You will be patient with 
me, Phil, won’t you? and you will try to teach me to be more worthy 
of you.” 

But to this question he gave no reply in words. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


61 


“ It seems to me,” she continued, “ as if I had been engaged to you 
a long while. This morning I should not have ventured to say 
much, and now 1 feel as if I could tell you anything. Do you know 
that for some time past, until quite lately, I fancied you were in 
trouble of some sort.” 

“I was in trouble, much trouble, but I hope it is now over. How 
did you find it out?” 

“I read it in your face.” 

“ I must say,” he returned, with a smile, “that it is rather hard on 
a clergyman that he can never — to use a very vulgar but graphic ex- 
pression — keep himself to himself. Whether he be ill or well, joyful 
or sorrowful, he can never be in the shade; he is criticised and dis- 
cussed and pulled to pieces — ” 

“And adored, Phil,” interposed Ethel. 

“This will never do,” he said; but he looked very happy. “I 
must indeed be stern with you.” 

“ It is only to-day; I won’t say it after to-day; really I won’t.” 

“I think I should indeed be a tyrant if I did not allow you to say 
what you pleased to-day; but it must be only to-day, remember.” 

They were now walking through fields of green corn, on the sum- 
mit of the upper clilf. They looked down on the town and the beau- 
tiful sea, now gorgeous with the setting sun. 

“How thankful I am to be alone sometimes — that is, alone with 
you,” he said, for the continual buzz of small talk, and attentions of 
the ladies, and perpetual little calls on his time and services for trivial 
matters, at times tried him sorely. 

“ There is the dear old church,” he continued. “ Look, Ethel,” 

“Have you not found it very uphill work sometimes; all your la- 
bor among the people?” 

“Sometimes it has pressed on me very heavily; I have felt very 
discouraged. But I now see every reason for hoping that my worst 
difficulties are at an end. I think happiness is before me, Ethel — 
great happiness. Now, before I speak to your father, tell me if there 
be any objection on your part to our being married in September — 
in three months’ time, that is.” 

“I don’t know, ’’she answered, shyly. 

‘ ‘ Then I take it for gi-anted there is none. I want my wife, Ethel ; 
I am very lonely sometimes, in spite of my busy life.” 

She looked up at him, her eyes full of sympathy. 

“Your face grows on any one in a wonderful manner,” he said, 
looking at her critically. “ When I first saw you, I simply thought 
you were pretty, but now — ” 

“Well—” 

“Now, I am not going to tell you what I think,” he answered, 
laughing, ' 

In the lane outside Admiral Hatton’s garden they found Mr, 
Yorke, walking up and down, smoking. 

“ I have been waiting for you,” he said. 

“ Have you been here long?” 

“ Oh dear, no,” he replied coolly, “only an hour and a half.” 


62 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“But why did you wait?” asked the Vicar; “it surely was not 
necessary.” 

“ The fact is, when I went home my wife told me that the Admiral 
— you must excuse me, Miss Ethel — was in a great rage, and was as 
likely as not to pitch into the first person he came across; and as 1 
knew you wouldn’t put up with that, Manley, I thought it would 
save any unpleasantness, and look more respectable, if we all three 
went in together. ” 

“I am much obliged to you,” said the Vicar, “but I cannot see 
any reason why Admiral Hatton should be annoyed with me; I told 
him I should bring Ethel home myself.” 

“There isn’t the smallest reason, ’’said Yorke, with a slight shrug; 
“but angry people are not always reasonable, and when you do ask 
a man for his daughter — I really beg your pardon for assuming so 
much — ” (the Vicar smiled) — “you may as well not give him any 
possible pretext for affronting you.” 

“ But what made my father angry?” asked Ethel. 

“He was in high good- humor — so my wife tells me — at seeing the 
4wo young men return in uniform, and began to talk to them. Dur- 
ing the conversation Miss Hatton and Captain Worsley slipped away 
and went into the garden. This annoyed Mr. Campbell so much that 
he forgot himself, and argued very rudely with your father, declar- 
ing that the navy was improved now in every possible way, and that 
the old school of naval officers, who were always saying that the navy 
was going to the dogs, were — he did not actually say so, but he im- 
plied it — fools. This put your father into a towering rage, during 
which my wife came away, and I thought I might as well wait for 
you.” 

But Admiral Hatton had completely recovered his good-humor 
when they entered, and was deep in conversation with Captain 
Worsley on the subject of torpedoes. This young man then took his 
leave, saying, 

“ So awfully glad to have seen you all; so sorry I have to go to 
Plymouth to-morrow. But 1 shall be back again soon.” 

He gave a longing glance at Miss Hatton, who walked down the 
garden with him. 

“ I shall be so awfully delighted to return,” were his last words. 

The Vicar’s interview with Admiral Hatton was very short, but 
eminently satisfactory. The Admiral expressed himself much hon- 
ored and gratified that a man bearing so high a character as Mr. 
Manley should wish to marry his daughter, and he only regretted 
that he had not a penny to give with her. 

The Vicar averred that the honor was on his side, and that he had 
no wish for money, as a fortune in a wife was better than a fortune 
with a wife. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


63 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IMPENDING TROUBLE. 

There was a great failure in a London bank. This was caused 
by the daring thefts of the manager, one Mr, Carter, who, before the 
directors’ very eyes, had abstracted bonds and securities of enormous 
value, replacing them by worthless papers. He had been so long in 
the bank, and was so fully trusted by the directors, that they had 
failed to observe the ordinary and requisite precautions, and he had 
taken the fullest advantage of their confidence. 

He had now disappeared, no one knew whither, and all efforts of 
the police to trace him being in vain, it was supposed he had gone 
abroad. His forgeries had been so many, his embezzlements so 
great, that it was well known that, when taken, his sentence must be 
penal servitude for life. 

Mr. Leslie lost a very large sum of money in consequence, and 
was in high wrath, 

“I hope if the scoundrel is taken, he will be hung. Hanging is 
too good for him,” he exclaimed. “ To say nothing of what I have 
lost, and others like me, look' at the number of widows and orphans 
he has reduced to poverty !” 

But it may be questioned whether Mr. Leslie would have felt the 
wrongs of the widows and orphans quite so much, had it not been 
for his own ! As it was, he was compelled to give up his large house 
and take a small one; indeed, he had to make many sacrifices of per- 
sonal comfort which annoyed him greatly, 

“ I suppose,” said Mrs. Leslie to the Vicar, “that you will not 
visit us often now.” 

“Why should I not visit you ?” he asked, gravely. 

“I didn’t really mean it, Mr. Manley,” she rejoined. “I know 
the size of our house could make no possible difference to you, and 
that you are far more disposed to visit the poor than the rich; but if 
you had a wife or relations I question whether they would look on it 
m the same light. I do not, of course, refer to Ethel; I mean if you 
were married before ” — for the news of the Vicar’s engagement was 
known all over Newforth. 

“ I do not see why it should make any difference either to my wife 
or my relations.” 

Mrs. Leslie laughed. 

‘ ‘ No, but they would. It is wonderful how soon most clergymen’s 
families find you out if you keep a carriage, and how long a time it 
takes them to ascertain that you are of the same birth with them- 
selves if you do not live in a large house.” 


64 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Unfortunately, the Vicar could not controvert this statement; he 
held his peace. 

In spite of the deep happiness his engagement had given him, some 
cloud seemed again over him ; there were lines of care on his brow 
very often when alone. 

After speaking to Admiral Hatton on the evening of his engage- 
ment, he had gone into the church, as was his wont when deeply 
moved — for he always carried the key of the vestry with him — and, 
standing before his beautiful window, had found himself almost 
overwhelmed with the happiness that had befallen him. On every 
side blessings seemed to have sprung up around him. He found him- 
self repeating, “For love is of God.” 

He had risen early the next morning and gone on the beach, had 
watched the fishing-boats depart, and noted the glorious sunlight on 
the sea, the fresh sparkle of the waves, the salt, delicious odor of the 
seaweed lying in heaps on the shingle. 

Once more he leaped from rock to rock, and, looking at the scene 
before him, exclaimed with Milton, 

“ ‘ These are thy glorious works. Parent of good. 

Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still, to give us only good.’” 

It certainly was not the most direct way home, but some im- 
pulse made him return by Admiral Hatton’s house. There, in the 
garden, were the two girls enjoying the warm sunshine before 
breakfast. 

Miss Hatton came forward and opened the gate, saying, 

“lam so very glad, Mr. Manley, about you and Ethel,” to which 
he warmly responded. 

“Who is going to give me a rose?” he asked. 

Ethel gathered one. 

“Pin it in his button-hole, Ethel,” said her sister. 

“Clergymen don’t wear button-holes,” returned Ethel, her eyes 
shining. 

“Then I will be the exception,” said the Vicar, “for I will wear 
your rose now.” 

Miss Hatton duly retired while a little private conversation took 
place. 

“ I must go now,” he said, after a few minutes. 

‘ ‘ V ery well, ” said Ethel. 

He went out of the gate, and then she called him back. 

“ What is it?” 

“Another time, when a brother clergyman disappoints you, you 
need not apologize so humbly to the congregation as you did last 
Wednesday. You know they all prefer you to any stranger,” she 
said, with a laugh. 

He shook his head and went away. 

“Upon my word,” said Miss Hatton, “your intimacy must have 
made enormous strides since yesterday! How you could venture to 
say that, I don’t know ; I shouldn’t, as it was about church arrange- 
ments.” ^ 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


65 


“I could venture to say anything to him now, ’’returned Ethel, in 
the full consciousness of her power. 

So a week had passed most joyously; so happily that the Vicar 
began actually to be afraid of the absorbing passion that love was be- 
coming to him, and to fight against it as a temptation. And then 
had come this trouble from outside which tempered his great glad- 
ness, and told him how powerless we are to clip the wings of hap- 
piness. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SPIRE. 

A MEETING for the purpose of raising the spire fund was now an- 
nounced. 

Notwithstanding his numerous engagements, the Vicar had never 
lost sight of this object, and had sounded some of the richer mem- 
bers of his congregation as to what they felt inclined to contribute. 
He now felt justified in calling a meeting, to be held at the Town 
Hall. 

He did not purpose making this sectarian. He had always, as far 
as possible, worked most amicably with the Dissenting ministers, and 
shown them much kindness; and on this occasion, in addition to vis- 
iting the mayor and the lord of the manor. Lord Hilton, he had 
begged the ministers of other denominations to support him. The 
work was to some extent a public one, as the spire would become so 
prominent a sea-mark, also a very great ornament to the entire neigh- 
borhood. Under these circumstances he did not feel that the entire 
cost, which was considerable, should be borne alone by his congrega- 
tion. It was his wish also to transfer the bell of the clock, supply- 
ing one of greater power that could be heard at sea, and to make the 
clock chime the half-hours and quarters. This, he thought, could be 
done. He anxiously desired a peal of bells, which he knew would 
greatly add to the glory he would feel in the spire, but this he did 
not allow himself to consider possible to obtain. 

He constantly visited Mr. and Mrs. Yorke, with the former of 
whom he had long conversations respecting his schemes. Now, Mr. 
Yorke, being the son of a canon and having been brought up in a 
clerical element, could give his opinion with a certain amount of au- 
thority, although he made no professions as to church work. It was 
by his advice that Captain Vincent and Mr. Fortescue were invited 
to the meeting. “They are both so wealthy that they can help 
largely if they please,” said Mr. Yorke. 

“But, ’’replied the Vicar, “though I do earnestly desire to see the 
spire on the tower, I do not wish to make it an occasion of begging 
— of passing round the hat to rich men. I want the work to be done 
spontaneously, to be a worthy offering. I cannot think it either right 
or advisable in such a matter as this to ask people to give froni mo- 
tives of private friendship.” 


66 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


“I respect your scruples, Phil, but I do not share them,” said Mr. 
Yorke, who sometimes called his friend by his Christian name, they 
having been Westminster boys together. “Do you want Vincent 
and Fortescue down here, or do you not?” 

“ I shall be very glad to see them. I consider Captain Vincent a 
most proper person to be present, being so prominent a man among 
us. All I wish you to understand is, that 1 am not going to ask 
them to contribute. If they offer to do so out of a genuine feeling 
of interest, and a wish to serve us, that is quite another affair.” 

“Pride, my dear Manley; all pride, ” returned Mr. Yorke, who, 
though most genial, was at heart a very proud man in some respects. 

The Vicar smiled. 

“No, it isn’t pride; you don’t understand.” 

“ I dare say not.” 

The two men were walking up and down the Vicar’s garden; 
Ethel and her sister went by. They saw them across the road. 

“ That is a very nice girl — Ethel, I mean,” said Mr. Yorke; “and 
I wish you joy, with all my heart, Phil. They are both nice girls.” 

The Vicar watched until they were out of sight. 

“ I trust our marriage will not have to be postponed,” he said, with 
a sigh. “You will think me foolish, I dare say, Yorke; but I tell you 
I am actually counting each day as it goes by.” 

“I do not think you at all foolish, Phil,” replied Mr. Yorke, kind- 
ly. “I remember how impatient I was; and if you are only as hap- 
py as I am, you will be a very happy man. But if you take my ad- 
vice, you will not put off your marriage on any consideration; in 
my opinion, it would be most unadvisable. ” 

“But,” said the Vicar, “ in common honesty, ought I to marry her 
without telling her all? and you know I cannot tell her. My most 
solemn word has been passed.” 

Now Yorke was a' man of scrupulous honor. He considered a 
moment. 

“ Were she to know all the circumstances, do you think she would 
have the smallest hesitation in marrying you?” he asked. 

“I do not think she would, ” replied the Vicar, readily, remember- 
ing the many, many speeches declaring her great love that she had 
made since her engagement. 

“If you are sure on that point, why hesitate?” said Yorke. 
“Marry her; the fault is none of yours.” 

And then ensued some very earnest conversation. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE SPIRE MEETING. 

Tire large Town Hall was well filled on the occasion of the meet- 
ing. * The audience began to wax impatient when eight o’clock 
struck. Five minutes later Lord Hilton appeared at the end of the 


'THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


67 


room, followed by the mayor, Captain Vincent, the Vicar, the cu- 
rate, the church -wardens, various members of importance in the 
congregation, several brother clergymen, and dissenting ministers. 
These all took their places on the platform. Mr. Fortescue and Mr. 
Yorke were a^ong the audience, with their wives. 

Mrs. Fortescue had requested as a special favor that her husband 
would not go on the platform, where he had been offered a place. 

“You will look so dreadfully amused and sarcastic, Arthur, if any 
one should drop his h’s or speak in bad grammar. ” 

“ It is rather hard that I should not be amused, I think,” he had re- 
sponded, lazily. “Asa rule, these meetings are the reverse of amus- 
ing. I always take care to stroke my mustache when any specially 
salient point is brought to my notice; but even should I omit to do 
so, I warrant you they will forgive me any amount of smiles if I 
hand them over a check for thirty pounds, which is what I purpose 
doing.” 

“I am not at all sure that the Vicar would condone your offences, 
if you gave a hundred pounds, dear. He would refuse it on the spot 
if he thought you were turning anything into ridicule.” 

Mr. Fortescue shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

“ Have it your own way, Maud; deprive me of the seat where, per- 
haps, I might get a little fresh air.” 

“ Oh, np, Arthur, if that is the reason,” Mrs. Fortescue began ear- 
nestly ; but her husband laughed, and said nothing should now prevent 
him from’ sitting among the audience. 

Mr. Yorke had already promised twenty-five pounds; he was by 
no means so rich as his two friends. 

“ Twenty-five will buy you a seat on the platform, Yorke.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t, Mr. Fortescue,” said Mrs. Vincent, who was 
sitting with Mrs. Yorke and Mrs. Fortescue. “You are laughing 
at everything. It is too bad when Mr. Manley is so earnest about it ; 
I do admire him so much.” 

‘ ‘ I should not give thirty pounds to an object I ridiculed,” returned 
IMr. Fortescue, more gravely; “and I have seen quite enough of Mr. 
Manley to have thoroughly made up my mind about him.” 

The Vincents and Fortescues had driven in from Orton that after- 
noon, and dined early with the Yorkes. They were to sleep at the 
hotel. The Vicar had also been invited to dinner, but had declined. 

Lord Hilton, who presided, was the first to address the meeting. 
He was a fine old man, vigorous and hearty, and somewhat old- 
fashioned in speech and manner. He told the people that he had 
laid the foundation-stone of the church a very great many years ago, 
when he was a young man. How, in the first instance, Newforth 
being then simply a fishing- village, the chancel only had been built; 
but, he said, the inhabitants, though few and by no means rich, had 
been generous, and had freely given their utmost, so that, by degrees 
— the original plan of the church being strictly adhered to — the nave 
and side chapels had been added. He remembered, he said, being 
called there early one morning, when the chancel only was built, to 
see what could be done, as the high arch was giving way, it was 


68 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


feared. He himself ascended the ladders, and assisted in throwing 
down some tons of stone, after which the arch was temporarily- 
shored up, and afterwards permanently strengthened. He detailed 
the efforts of the increasing inhabitants to build the tower, and spoke 
of their earnest wish to provide a spire. And then, h^^said, a period 
of deadhess seemed to have fallen on the inhabitants,^e would not 
say why or wherefore; but now, owing to the unceasing efforts of 
their good Vicar, of whose good works he could not speak in suffi- 
cient praise (the Vicar looked excessively uncomfortable), this dead- 
ness had been removed, and the parish was more full of life and zeal 
and earnestness than almost any other of his acquaintance. He 
begged, in conclusion, to assure them of his hearty support and good- 
will, to inform them how pleased he was to see the meeting so largely 
attended, and to be supported on the platform by representatives of 
so many different bodies. Lord Hilton sat down amid loud ap- 
plause. 

The Vicar then addressed the meeting in few and well-chosen 
words. After thanking the chairman for his kind words, he said he 
thought it his duty to tell those present that Lord Hilton had given 
the ground on which the church was built, and that he had now put 
down on the table a check for one hundred pounds. He then added 
a few words relative to the important sea-mark the spire would be- 
come, and some others of pleasure at the representative character of 
the meeting. Loud applause followed. 

Captain Vincent then proposed the first resolution, “ That the 
spire be built without further delay, ” which was duly seconded and 
supported. 

“How well Kupert speaks,” said Mrs. Vincent, who considered 
her husband the wonder of the age. “ All he says is so clear and so 
well put.” 

The business of the meeting then went forward. 

“ It seems to me,” said Mr. Fortescue, “ that this meeting is noth- 
ing less than a mutual admiration society. Every one admires 
everything and everybody, and praises everything and agrees to 
everything. I have not heard one dissentient voice. It would add 
vastly to the interest if some one would get up and make himself 
obnoxious. Should no one else come forward I really think I must.” 

He had, in the meantime, since hearing the statistics, and being 
made aware of the good that was being done and was still to do in 
the parish, quietly altered his check into one for sixty pounds; for 
pens and ink were handy. 

But when the mayor began to speak, Mr. Fortescue promised him- 
self some real amusement, and laughed outright when, in speaking 
of the work going forward, he invariably observed, “ The Vicar and 
me,” did this or that. 

“I was not aware that Mr. Manley had an additional curate in 
the mayor,” he said, gravely. 

“ The mayor hasn’t done a single thing,” said Mrs. Yorke. “ The 
only point in his favor is that he has ab^stained from being actively 
disagreeable. ” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


69 


“There is not an Ti in his composition,” said Mr. Fortescue ; 
“and some of the Newforth ministers are decidedly wanting in 
final g'sy 

“But they are all so earnest and hearty,” said Mrs. Vincent, 
warmly. “ I am sure it quite does me good to hear them! Com- 
pare them with London society, our society, and see how immeasu- 
rably they are superior to us in what is good.” 

“I protest against this, Mrs. Vincent; 1 protest warmly; I am sat- 
isfied with my society, they are satisfied with their society. Why 
then quarrel? I like final g's ; they do not care about them. ‘ Live 
and let live,’ say I; therefore I do not see why comparisons — hu- 
miliating to me— should be instituted. I never professed to be any- 
thing but a very inferior individual.” 

“ Oh, Arthur!” from Mrs. Fortescue. 

“Mr. Rowen has actually been induced to be on the platform,” 
said Mrs. Yorke. “ I do wish he were not so dreadfully melan- 
choly. But he has taken care to sit behind Mr. Leslie, so that he 
cannot be seen.” 

“How well Mr Manley looks!” said Mrs. Vincent; “ he has such 
a fresh, bright face.” 

“ Looks as if he had just come from taking a header?” said Mr. 
Fortescue. “ Yes, I think he does. Where is his young lady?” 

“ Oyer there,” said Mrs. Yorke, pointing to a group of the Hatton 
family and Mrs. Leslie. 

“ She is a very pretty girl,” said Mr. Fortescue. 

“And a very nice girl,” remarked Mr. Yorke. 

The meeting closed amid expressions of loud applause and satis- 
faction, but not before Mr. Leslie, in a very good and humorous 
speech, had informed the audience that he had no doubt they should 
soon raise the money by small subscriptions, as one little girl had 
given a penny, and another fourpence; to which the Vicar replied 
that he was delighted to hear it, and he should be quite as proud of 
the pence of children and of the poor as of the largest subscriptions 
of the rich.” 

At the entrance door was a book, in which persons present might 
inscribe their names and promises of subscriptions. 

Captain Vincent was on the point of writing down his name for 
one hundred pounds when his wife checked him, and beckoned to 
him to speak to her apart. 

“ Rupert, dear,” she said, earnestly, “ don’t write down your name 
until you hear what I should like to do.” 

Mrs. Vincent had been strangely moved during the meeting when 
she had heard of the poor, neglected, untidy parish church, and then of 
the successful efforts to restore it to beauty and order. She thought 
of their own well-kept church, and of the abundant means always 
forthcoming to keep it in repair. She determined that she would 
make an effort to help the Vicar of Newforth, whom she was begin- 
ning to like and respect so much. She always took an extreme in- 
terest in church matters, owing to the late rector of Orton having 
been her dearest fuiend until his death. 


VO THE BACHELOE VICAR OP NEWFOETH. 

“ What would you like to do?” asked her husband. 

Now, Mrs. Vincent had been a wealthy heiress before her mar- 
riage ; but she had given all her money absolutely to her husband. 

“ What would a peal of bells cost?” 

He considered a moment. 

‘ ‘ Perhaps a thousand pounds ; but I really don’t know. ' Ask Mr. 
Manley.” 

‘ ‘ The Newf orth people can raise the spire, but they can’t get the peal 
of bells. May I have some money to do what I like with, dear — five 
hundred pounds, say; and I will pay the rest out of my allowance.” 

Her husband laughed. 

“ We have now been married some years, my child,” he said — for 
he invariably addressed his wife thus when pleased — “and during 
all that time you have never asked me for any large sum of money, 
although it was your money. You shall have a th^ousand pounds at 
once; it is only taking what is your own. Your allowance, indeed! 
Don’t let me hear anything so ridiculous.” 

“You are very good, Rupert. Perhaps now you will not care to 
give to the spire fund.” 

“ I shall not give so much as I should otherwise have done; I will 
put down my name for twenty pounds.” 

“But there is another difficulty,” said his wife. “Mr, Manley 
may not choose to accept our gift.” 

“He can but decline it,” returned Captain Vincent; “but I do 
not think he will.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A HANDSOME PRESENT. 

The next morning the Vicar showed Mrs. Vincent the church and 
the window. The rest of the party had suggested accompanying 
her, but she had asked to be alone, in order that she might speak to 
Mr. Manley by herself. 

“ I shall have to look after you, if this goes on,” said her husband, 
laughing. 

“My dear Vincent,” said Mr. Fortescue, “I will back your and 
my attractions against those of any number of vicars, let our wives 
see as many of them as they please.” 

“You say so because Mrs. Fortescue’s tastes do not run in the di- 
rection of vicars,” returned Captain Vincent. “Now, with my 
wife it is quite another matter. ” 

“ Rupert!” said Mrs. Vincent. “ I wish you wouldn’t.” 

He laughed. 

“ Go your own way, my child; we won’t disturb your private con- 
ference. It is time to start now ; he said he would be at the church 
by eleven. We might go and see the Yorkes, and drop you on our 
way.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEAVFORTH. 71 

The Vicar, as usual, was punctual to a moment. As the clock 
struck eleven, he appeared and opened the doors. 

After due admiration had been bestowed on the window, Mrs. 
Vincent turned to him a little nervously, for she was doubtful as to 
the manner in which her offer would be received. 

“ Have you any hope of getting a peal of bells?” she asked. 

“I cannot say I have,” he replied, cheerfully; “but I like to 
hope.” 

“But you will get the spire for yourselves.” 

“ Oh, yes; every one really is so very kind, and seems inclined to 
make sacrifices so willingly. The original plans of the architect are 
in our possession, and one of the gentlemen offmy congregation, who 
is a most skilful architect, has promised to carry them out free of 
cost as to architect’s fees, and my kind church- warden, Mr. Leslie, 
has told me he will conduct any law business in connection with the 
work free of charge.” For, owing to his recent losses, Mr. Leslie 
could not give much in money. 

“ Mr. Manley,” said Mrs. Vincent, with a very sweet smile, “ are 
you one of those people who feel proud and offended at being offered 
anything — although that thing may be one on which they have set 
their heart?” 

“I trust that is not your estimate of my character,” he returned, 
kindly. V I think it is very often difficult to receive gifts graceful- 
ly, more so than to make them; but it is a most ungracious act not to 
accept a kind present in the spirit in which it is ofered. ” 

“I am so glad,” she replied, joyfully, “because I want to make 
you a present — that is to say, your church.” 

“You are very kind, what is it?” 

“ The peal of bells.” 

Now, the magnitude of this present at first almost startled the 
Vicar; he had been expecting an offer of a new altar cloth or some- 
thing of that sort. He turned the matter rapidly over in his mind, 
and decided that it would be both unwise and ungracious to refuse 
what would be not only the glory of his heart, but the pride of the 
whole parish. 

“I accept your munificent offer most gratefully,” he said, warmly; 
“ it is indeed unexpected. It is very good of you.” 

“ It is an honor to contribute towards a church, Mr. Manley.” 

“I think so, but I do not find my views universal, Mrs. Vin- 
cent.” 

“Thank you so very much for letting me give the peal.” 

He smiled. 

“ The thanks should come from me and my people, I think.” 

“Oh, but I was so afraid you would have made objections, and 
not accepted it until I felt utterly crushed by my presumption in of- 
fering it, which would have entirely destroyed my pleasure in mak- 
ing the gift.” 

“ That would have been very wrong on my part, Mrs. Vincent. I 
do not think I could be guilty of such ingratitude; for such conduct 
would in reality proceed from ingratitude, though veiled by the 


12 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


name of pride. Far better, I think, to refuse a gift at once than re- 
ceive it so.” 

And then, in a few gracious words, Mrs. Vincent congratulated Mr. 
Manley on his engagement, which, she said, she had quite foreseen 
when they were at Seafort that day; and that she would be very 
pleased if he could spare the time to call with her now on Miss 
Ethel, in order that she might invite her and her sister to visit them 
at Templemore, and she hoped the Vicar would accompany them. 

Now, though Mrs. Vincent thought Ethel Hatton a nice enough 
girl, she certainly would not have made this proposal except out of 
compliment to Mr. Manley, for whom she had already conceived a 
great liking and respect. 

He replied that he would make t\mQ\ and if she did not object to 
wait one moment on their road to Admiral Hatton’s, while he called 
at Mr. Ro wen’s, he should then be enabled to be free for another hour. 

“ Is every hour of your day occupied, Mr. Manley?” 

“ Nearly every hour.” 

“ That is rather hard.” 

“ I like it,” he replied, and changed the subject. 

Mr. Rowen came to the door himself, and Mrs. Vincent begged to 
be introduced, and smiled so brightly at him that even the melan- 
choly curate succumbed to her influence, and asked if he should 
show her the church — an offer he had never made to any one since 
he had been in Newforth. 

“Thank you so much,” said Mrs. Vincent; “and I should have 
been delighted, but Mr. Manley has been so kind as to show it to me 
already.” 

Mr. Rowen looked uneasy. 

“That’s right, Rowen,” said the Vicar, cheerfully. “I am glad 
you don’t mind showing the church; next time you shall do so in- 
stead of me.” 

This speech restored the curate’s equanimity; for he stood a little 
in awe of Mr. Manley. 

The Hatton girls were both at home. Mrs. Vincent made known 
her request. 

“And you must come,” she continued, “while this fine weather 
lasts. I think we shall find quite enough to interest you in the 
grounds and the town for two or three days.” 

“We shall be delighted to come,” said Miss Hatton; “and it is 
extremely kind of you to ask us.” 

“ Shall I ask Mr. Campbell to meet you?” 

“ No,” answered the girl, with decision; “ I would rather not. I 
haven’t seen him since that day at Seafort, when he behaved so 
badly.” 

^ For Mr. Campbell had thought it advisable to remain away for a 
little while, knowing also that Captain Worsley was safely out of the 
way at Plymouth. 

Mrs. Vincent then took her leave. The Vicar said he would take 
her to the hotel. 

“Indeed you shall not,” she exclaimed, with energy. “Sooner 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 73 

than that,” she added, with a smile, “I would call on Mr. Rowen, 
and ask him to escort me.” 

The girls laughed. 

“ You worked Mr. Rowen up to making a most marvellous effort 
this morning, Mrs, Vincent,” said the Vicar, smiling; “ but I think 
that even you would not he able to persuade him to go to your ho- 
tel and face your husband. As you will not allow me to accom- 
pany you, I must submit.” 

“ How nice she is!” said Mrs. Hatton, after Mrs. Vincent left. 

“ She is,” replied the Vicar. “ She is very pretty, but it is her ex- 
pression that I admire so much; for I think much more of expres- 
sion than feature. It is my theory that when any one is past his 
first youth, he makes his own face; or, if a woman, that she does.” 

“ How so?” asked Ethel. 

‘ ‘ The ideas of the mind communicate themselves to the facial 
lineaments. This is more especially the case with regard to the 
mouth. An habitually discontented, querulous mind causes the 
corners of the mouth to draw down; a smiling, happy disposition, 
has the reverse effect. A determined person closes his mouth in 
such a manner that in time his mouth alters; and so on — to say 
nothing of the eyes and other features, to all of which expression is 
distinctly communicable. ” 

“ I never thought of that,” said Ethel. 

“Show me a man’s face, and I shall be surprised if I cannot teU 
you what manner of man he is,” said the Vicar. 

“ We are not all so clever as you,” said Miss Hatton, with a laugh. 
“But, talking of ability, what an extraordinary thing it is that Mr. 
Rowen cannot preach better after being ordained so long; and he 
does not want for sense either.” 

“I would rather not hear Mr. Rowen criticised,” said the Vicar; 
“his good work speaks for him more than his sermons.” 

“But you must allow he is frightfully obscure; and when he is 
most obscure, he turns to the congregation and sap, ‘You all know 
what I mean.’ Mr. Leslie says he often feels inclined to get up and 
say, ‘ I haven’t the faintest notion what you mean, nor has any one 
else.” 

“Don’t, Gertrude,” said Ethel. 

“ I’ll go now,” returned Miss Hatton, “ and then I can’t be scolded. 
Although it would be in the nature of a new experience to hear ^ou 
scold any one, Mr. Manley.” 

“ If I don’t actually scold, I can be very stern when I like,” said 
the Vicar; adding, as Miss Hatton went away, Don’t you think so, 
Ethel?” 

She laughed. ' 

“Well, Phil, if I were you, I wouldn’t propound that theory 
about expression quite so openly. ” 

“ And why not?” 

“People mzffhi say that conceit originated it.” 

“ Conceit?” he repeated. 

“ You see when any one— not you, of course — but when any one 


74 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


has a beautiful expression himself — What are you shaking your 
head at me for? I didn’t say you had.” 

He stopped her with a kiss. 

“I am not half stern enough with you, I see. What did you 
promise me?” ' 

“I have kept my word, Phil; I have really. But I wish it was 
Christmas, and then I could tell you what I think of you. Couldn’t 
we,” looking up into his face, “ couldn’t we make it Christmas-day, 
just for once?” 

“Ethel, my darling,” he said, seriously, “I wish you knew me as 
I know m3’’self. Who knows but when Christmas-day comes— and 
we shall then be mamed I hope — you will then have a very differ- 
ent tale to tell me.” 

“It is impossible, Phil,” she replied, earnestly; ^'notMug could 
destroy my faith in you.” 

“Your faith may, perhaps, be tested before long,” he said, gravely. 

“ My faith will stand any test. I not onl}'- love you, but I believe 
in you with all my heart; you know I do, Phil.” 

He took her in his arms, and bade her farewell with something of 
solemnity; he lingered over the parting, and seemed as if he could 
not bear to let her go. 

“ I love you too much, Ethel,” he said; “ I know I love you too 
much.” 

It was well that they could not foresee that this was their last un- 
clouded meeting for many a long day. 

“God bless you, my darling I” he said as he went out; “and I 
pray you may retain your trust in me.” 


CHAPTER XVII. ' 

THE STRANGE WOMAN. 

Arrangements for commencing the spire at once, were made. 
Before a few weeks had elapsed the estimates had been sent in, and 
some of the scaffolding erected. 

The Vicar watched the work with the greatest interest, and was 
constantly at the church; but, in spite of this interest, he was look- 
ing very troubled; he seemed to carry about some care with him. 

About this time a very pretty woman was occasionally seen in 
Newforth. She was an exceedingly pretty young woman, with a 
clever face, and dark hair and eyes. Her dress was that of a work- 
ing woman; she wore a plainly -made gown of black material, a 
quiet straw bonnet, and a cloak almost Quakerish in its cut. SJie 
usually came to Newforth in the early morning, made her pur- 
chases at the market, and disappeared. 

Out of idle curiosity, one day, young Mr. Allen thought he would 
trace her. He followed her to Fisherman’s Cove, and saw her enter 
the house of Mrs. Stevens. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. V5 

“ Such a lark!” he said to his sister. “ There is some one here 
who beats all you girls hollow — except Ethel, of course.” 

“ Who is she?” asked Miss Allen. 

Her brother detailed his adventure. 

“ I wonder you took the trouble to follow a common woman about,” 
said Miss Allen, contemptuously; “it was very wrong of you.” 

“ It is my belief she is not a common woman,” he replied. “ She 
wore no gloves, but her hands were white and delicate. I saw she 
had on a wedding-ring.” 

Miss Allen smiled rather disagreeably. 

“ You really ought to have some occupation found for you, Ed- 
ward; you idle away all your time, and will soon get into mischief. 
Pray don’t see any more of the woman.” 

But young Mr. Allen’s interest had been greatly excited by the 
stranger’s face. He watched at the window the next market-day 
until she appeared; then, taking up his hat, he followed her at a re- 
spectful distance. 

She bought some fruit, some gravy beef, and a few other articles; 
then, leaving the market, entered a chemist’s shop, and remained 
there some time. 

Still Mr. Allen lingered, he scarcely knew why. 

She placed her purchases in a large basket she carried on her arm, 
and commenced her walk home along the straight, dusty high-road. 
It was very hot — very hot, indeed ; the sun was scorching, the dust 
flying in showers. Her black dress looked, at length, as if it had 
been powdered. 

Young Mr. Allen, sauntering lazily along in his cool suit of light 
gray, a large umbrella held over his head, became conscious that he 
did not like to see this woman toiling along in front of him, he must 
offer to help her. Many and many a poor, tired old woman had 
passed him already, but no idea of assisting them had entered his 
mind. He quickened his pace and overtook her. 

“You look tired,” he said, kindly; “let me carry your basket for 
you.” 

She was on the point of refusing proudly, and then it seemed to 
occur to her that a working woman might well accept such assist- 
ance. “You are very kind,” she replied, and gave it to him. 

He placed it gallantly on his arm. It was very heavy, and made 
him feel wofully warm. 

A young lady he knew met him at this moment. He raised his 
hat, feeling inclined to throw the basket into the road. 

“You had better give it back to me,” said the stranger; “it is 
not pleasant for a young man like you to be met by your friends 
carrying a basket, and in company with a woman of my class.” 

But these words only confirmed Mr. Allen in his opinion that she 
was a lady. “No working woman has such a voice and manner,” 
he said to himself, and then something in her tone seemed familiar 
to him, and he thought he must have met her before, perhaps dif- 
ferently dressed and under other circumstances. 

‘ ‘ I like to carry your basket,” he said, stoutly. “ Where do you live ?” 


76 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWPORTH. 


She hesitated a moment, then answered, quietly, “I am lodging 
at Fisherman’s Cove with my husband. My husband is an invalid. ” 

The heat was very great, the two-mile walk seemed greatly to fa- 
tigue her. The approach to Fisherman’s Cove from the road was 
by a very narrow lane leading to the cliffs above the beach. A stile 
separated the lane from the road. 

Here she stopped, saying, ‘ ‘ I thank you very much and would 
have taken the basket from his hands. But he did not wish to go. 

“ Let me carry it down to the beach for you,” he said. 

“No, thank you, sir.” 

“1 see a cow coming up the lane; it may run at you. Let me 
see you safely past her, at all events,” urged the young man. 

Tlie woman shuddered. 

“lam ver^ much afraid of cows,” she said; “ I have lived in Lon- 
don so much.” And then she checked herself, as if she had said 
too much. 

The lane was winding, trees branched overhead. On one side 
were rocky mounds; on the other, fields. 

“ How pretty it is,” she exclaimed, “ and how glad I am to be in 
the shade once more.” 

Her fiushed cheeks made her eyes shine brilliantly. Mr. Allen 
decided that his morning’s work had not been thrown away. 

“The sea looks jolly, doesn’t it?” he said. “ I shall go for a row 
when I get back. Perhaps I could get one of the fishermen at the 
Cove to take me round.” 

“I dare say you could, sir,” she replied, in somewhat measured 
tones ; “it will save you a long, hot walk. ” 

They were now at the edge of the cliffs ; the path began to slope 
and wind down the face of them. 

“You must not accompany me farther,” she said, with decision. 
“I should prefer going on to the beach alone. I thank you very 
much.” 

“There might be another cow,” he said, knowing that the path 
was far too steep for such an animal to walk on, and that the cow 
they had already passed had been the most quiet of her kind. 

“ I prefer to go alone,” she answered, shortly. 

He raised his hat, saying, “ Good-morning.” 

She turned to him. 

“ You should not take off your hat to a working woman; it is not 
customary. You will oblige me very much by not doing so should 
you meet me again; indeed, I would rather that you did not recog- 
nize me at all.” 

“But why?” he asked. “ I thought it was allowable — to a work- 
ing woman,” he added, with emphasis. 

“Because—” she hesitated, “you are too courteous; it is not cus- 
tomary in our class.” 

“ A working woman!” he repeated, “she is no more a working 
woman than I am.” 

He threw himself on the short grass at the edge of the cliff, and 
watched her until she reached the beach. 


. THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. Y7 

The sea was so brilliant with sunlight that he could scarcely rest 
his eyes on it. On the beach he saw some of the boats drawn up; 
the fishermen in their bright jerseys and caps were cutting up dog- 
fish for bait. A man in a white linen coat and corduroy trousers 
was lying on the beach watching them. Mr. Allen could not see 
his face; he wore a shady felt hat, well pulled over his brows; but 
the light glanced in such a way as to make the young man think he 
wore spectacles. The woman deposited her basket within the most 
sheltered of the cottages, Mrs. Stevens’s, and then went on to the 
beach. She walked up to the man lying down, and spoke to him, 
turning her back towards the cliffs. A few moments afterwards 
Mr. Allen saw some one walking quickly along the beach who had 
come from Newforth. He recognized the Vicar. The latter nod- 
ded a greeting to the fishermen at work, and spoke to the man and 
the woman. The man rose, all three went to Mrs. Stevens’s house, 
and, going in, shut the door. Mr. Allen got up and stretched him- 
self lazily. Why or wherefore he did not know, but he resolved to 
walk home. 

“ They might not want me hanging about here,” he said, though 
he could give no reason for such a speech; “but oh, how glad I 
should have been of a boat!” 

He walked home slowly, grumbling at the heat and dust. On his 
arrival, he 'detailed the whole account to his mother, who, disagree- 
able woman as she was, thought her son could do no wrong. 

“ What a long story about nothing!” said his sister. “You could 
have told it in one minute. You met a pretty workman’s wife, and 
were soft enough to be imposed on by her; and the Vicar visited 
them, as he does every one all over the place.” 

Young Allen began to whistle a tune. 

“ Don’t be so rude to your brother, Mary,” said Mrs. Allen. “I 
am interested in all he tells me.” 

“You always did believe your goose was a swan,” returned her 
daughter, provokingly. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

“THAT PRETTY WOMAN.” 

The Misses Hatton paid their visit to Templemore, but the Vicar 
did not accompany them. He was extremely sorry, he said, but he 
could not possibly leave Newforth, even for a day. So Ethel de- 
parted, somewhat vexed. 

On her return he at once sought her, only to be received with 
marked coolness. Now, even from those he loved best, the Vicar 
was not a man to put up with any undeserved slight ; he showed his 
sense of displeasure by staying away for an entire week. 

But it was not alone on account of Ethel’s coldness that he re- 
mained away. He was undergoing great anxiety, apart from his 


78 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


parish work, and, in addition, business of a most pressing nature 
called for a great amount of his time. 

And now arose, no one knew why or wherefore, vague rumors 
concerning Mr. Manley — that he was too often at Fisherman’s Cove ; 
that he had been seen walking with some woman in the evening ; 
that, when apparently proceed^ing in haste to some destination, it 
was on business entirely unconnected with his parish work, and bet- 
ter left alone. 

Mr. Allen had often turned his steps in the direction of the Cove, 
but had met with no reward for his trouble. Going along the high- 
road one evening, when it was dusk, he had been overtaken by the 
Vicar, who passed without recognizing him. Mr. Allen saw that he 
took the lane leading to the Cove, and when Mr. Allen had gained 
the cliffs, and remained there some hour and a half, until it was quite 
dark, he saw Mr. Manley leave Mrs. Stevens’s cottage. The light 
from within revealed that the stranger-lodger was with him, and 
that the Vicar was talking earnestly to her at the door. 

A story never loses in repeating. Vague hints began to reach 
Ethel. On her part she was seriously concerned at Mr. Manley’s 
prolonged absence; for although she had seen him in church, he had 
made no attempt to speak to her. Feeling that she had been in fault, 
she wrote and asked him to come and see her. He complied with 
her request within an hour. To him, also, it had been a great trou- 
ble not to see her; but, alas! within that hour another visitor had 
been before him. 

“The Vicar has been to the Cove again, mother,” Mr. Allen had 
said a short time previously. 

“And why should he not; and why should you be a spy on the 
Vicar?” his sister had retorted, sharply. 

“And why shouldn’t your brother go there as well as the Vicar, 
without his being a spy?” returned Mrs. Allen, sharply. 

“Come,” said that young man, good-temperedly, “we needn’t 
quarrel over it. I am the last one to be a spy. I happened to be 
passing, and I saw him — that’s all. Don’t make such a row about 
it.” 

“People are beginning to say all lands of things,” replied his 
mother. “Some one ought to tell that unfortunate Ethel: It is 
quite some one’s duty.” 

“ Take my advice, and don’t you be that some one,” said her son; 
“you will only put your foot into it. And, after all, what do we 
know that is any harm?” 

“ It isn’t what we know; it’s what we hear.” 

“That is ridiculous,” said Mary Allen, with warmth. “People 
ought never to believe what they hear.” 

“‘There is no smoke without fire,’” returned Mrs. Allen. “I 
shall put on my bonnet at once, and go round to the Hattons. ” 

“You had much better not,” said her son, who deeply regretted 
having given any information. 

But Mrs. Allen was not to be persuaded ; she put on her bonnet 
and went out. On passing the church she went round to look atllhe 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


79 


building going on. There stood the Vicar, talking to the foreman. 
He raised his hat gravely, but did not come forward to speak. Now, 
this was a mark of attention which Mrs. Allen thought due to her; 
she felt annoyed, and declared to herself that, as he did not show 
her any particular courtesy, he could not expect her to treat him 
with much consideration. 

Admiral and Mrs. Hatton and the girls were all at home, but even 
Mrs. Allen did not think it advisable to bring forward her subject in 
Admiral Hatton’s presence. 

“It is very warm this afternoon,” she said, fanning herself. “I 
should so like to see your roses, and sit under the shade of your nice 
trees. Won’t you show me your garden. Miss Ethel?” 

“ With pleasure,” returned that young lady, falling at once into 
the trap. 

“ I can’t take any one else out in the heat; I can’t, indeed,” said 
Mrs. Allen, as Mrs. Hatton got up to accompany her. “I will be 
with you in a few minutes. ” 

She walked across the lawn with Ethel. 

“And what is this I hear about the Vicar?” she asked, abruptly. 

Ethel colored, thinking she alluded to his absence of the past week, 
and vexed to think the fact must in some way have been made known 
to the town. 

“I thought I would come to you first of all, my dear,” continued 
Mrs. Allen, “because I am the last person ever to repeat scandal or 
say anything ill-natured; and, of course, you must know all about it.” 

“About what?” asked Ethel, distantly. 

“ About these visits to Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“What visits? I do not understand you.” 

“Oh,” returned Mrs. Allen, with marked emphasis; “then it is 
worse than I thought. I made sure he would have told you^ 

“ Told me what, Mrs. Allen,” said Ethel, indignantly. “ What is 
there to tell ? Of course, I have always known that Mr. Manley vis- 
ited at Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Allen, in a voice of commiseration, “it 
isn’t just ordinary visiting. A very pretty woman lives there, and 
my son has seen — yes, actually seen — the Vicar talking to her at 
night, with his own eyes.” 

“How could he see with any other person’s eyes?” asked Miss 
Hatton, sharply, who had joined them unobserved. 

“What nonsense you are talking, Mrs. Allen; I don’t believe a 
word of it.” 

“You are very' polite,” replied Mrs. Allen. “I must say, rery 
polite.” 

“I can’t help it,” returned Miss Hatton, “but I do hate scandal, 
and I am quite sure that any scandal against the Vicar would be 
gross falsehood. Will you tell me, in black and white, what you 
mean?” 

“ No, ” said Mrs. Allen, now very angry. ‘ ‘ No, I won’t ; and if your 
sister doesn’t know, all I can say is, I am very sorry for her, poor 
thing. I told her, lecause I considered it my duty. Good-afternoon !” 


80 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ Whenever any one is spiteful, it is always because of one’s duty,” 
said Miss Hatton, warmly. ‘ ‘ What are you looking like that about, 
Ethel? You can’t be such a fool as to believe it.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Ethel, in a low voice, “ but I wish peo- 
ple wouldn’t talk; and oh, how I wish Phil would come.” 

She had dressed herself very becomingly for his reception ; and, 
even as she spoke, his head appeared in the distance. 

“I will leave you to yourselves,” said her sister; “but I advise you 
to be careful what you say, Ethel. From what I know of Mr. Man- 
ley ’’—for Miss Hatton never called him by his Christian name— “ I 
am sure he is not the man to put up with any nonsense.” 

The Vicar came forward with outstretched hands. 

“Ethel, my darling, are you glad to see me?” he asked, gently. 

“ Yes,” she answered, quietly, but without drawing nearer to him; 
“I am very glad indeed, Phil. I did not think you would have 
stayed away so long. Why did you?” 

“Can you tell me truthfully that you received me quite as you 
should have done on the occasion of my last visit? I am not find- 
ing fault, my darling,” he said, gravely, “but I cannot let you think 
I have been indifferent to you.” 

“No, Phil,” she answered, in a low tone, “I did not receive you 
properly, and I am very sorry. But I did think you might have 
gone to Templemore with us. ” 

“I told you at the time that it was quite impossible for me to 
leave Newforth for a single day.” 

He had placed her hand in his arm, and was standing beneath the 
trees. 

“ But what made it impossible? That is what you did not tell 
me.” 

“ That is what I cannot tell you, Ethel; you must not expect either 
now, or when we are married, to be told everything. A number of 
people confide in a clergyman who certainly would not confide in 
him if he were to repeat even the substance of their communications 
to his wife.” 

Mrs. Allen’s insinuations returned to Ethel’s mind; she withdrew 
her hand from the Vicar’s arm. 

“ Phil,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “do you know people are talk- 
ing about you.” 

“About me!” he repeated; “and what do they say?” 

“I don’t know what they say, but they make very unpleasant 
hints.” 

“Of what nature?” 

She repeated Mrs. Allen’s words, as far as she remembered them ; 
but, instead of the indignant denial she had expected, the Vicar’s 
face wore a look of the most serious concern, and for some mo- 
ments he did not speak. 

“lam extremely sorry to hear that any such reports are being 
spread,” he said, at length, very gravely; “ extremely sorry.” 

“But they are not true, Phil, are they?” said Ethel, appealingly. 

he exclaimed, in amazement, “do you believe in any- 


THE BACnELOE VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


81 


thing of that nature you may have heard against me — you, Ethel?” 
and he set his face sternly. 

‘‘Please don’t be angry, Phil,” she returned, humbly; “I don't 
believe it. I only wanted you- to say that you didn’t go to the Cove 
so much to see that pretty woman.” 

“But I do go there,” he returned, with decision, “although I do 
not see why my actions should be the subject of public remark. I 
go to see the woman of whom you speak, whose husband is ill.” 

“Oh,” said Ethel, greatly relieved, “then you go to see him be- 
cause he is ill.” 

“I wish you to understand, Ethel, in the clearest, though in the 
kindest, manner,” said the Vicar, speaking very gently, “that I do 
not admit even yozc?’ right to question my actions where my parish- 
ioners are concerned. These matters are between them and me 
alone. But, as I do not wish you to understand what is false, even 
though it be implied falsehood, I will tell you that I go to see them 
dot/iy they are both in need of me.” 

She turned away from him. 

“Ethel,” he said, gravely, “if you knew what trouble I am in, 
you would not behave thus.” 

She turned to him at once, saying, gently, “lam very sorry, dear 
Phil; I did not know you were in trouble. Tell me what it is.” 

“ That is just what I cannot tell you, my darling; it would not be 
right that I should at present. Meantime you will do me a great 
service by silencing these reports, if you possibly can. I am more 
grieved than I can say that they should have got wind. ” 

She looked up at him, prepared to tell him she would do her very 
utmost, when a sudden idea flashed across her mind, and she spoke 
impulsively, “Is the trouble about that pretty woman, Phil?” 

He turned round, and walked out of the garden without another 
word. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DISTRUST. 

Matters in Newforth parish were going badly. It was not that 
there was any lack of zeal in work, any lack of funds, any abate- 
ment of interest in the building of the spire, but that an ever-grow- 
ing scandal concerning the Vicar was spreading. It had even pene- 
trated to the poorer classes of Newforth, to the various districts; and 
when the British workman gets hold of any one’s reputation, good- 
bye to it. 

The wildest reports prevailed— originating no one knew how or 
whence—that the Vicar had been seen at the dead of night in the 
country lanes with the strange woman; that in the dusk, under the 
shelter of the cliffs, he had kissed her over and over again; that his 
visits to her husband were a mere pretext, together with supposi- 
tions still more wild and improbable. 

6 


82 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


What had any one seen? No reliable witness had seen anything; 
but, of course, it must be true, or other people could not be talking. 
Certainly Mr. Manley’s dog had been recognized outside Mrs. Ste- 
vens’s cottage on various occasions, but otherwise no one could say 
a word positively. Still there were talkings and whisperings and 
shaking of heads, and the Vicar’s influence was perceptibly weaker. 
He himself was quite unconscious of what was said, with the excep- 
tion of Ethel’s communication to him. That any talk should have 
arisen was a great anxiety to him, for reasons totally unconnected 
with himself, and added vastly to the actual trouble itself. His 
cheeks were becoming a little hollow ; his voice more touching, and 
certainly a little melancholy, the ring of pathos was very percep- 
tible. 

Ethel he had not seen since he had parted from her in the garden. 
In truth, he had been most deeply hurt and surprised. Still, within 
an hour, he sent her a note— a very short note. It said: 

“If I failed in courtesy towards you, Ethel, in leaving you to-day 
without wishing you good-bye, I now offer you an apology. 

“T.M.” 

This, for a first love-letter, cannot be called ardent ; but the Vicar 
had not the smallest intention of making it ardent. He felt terribly 
disappointed, and much grieved at the jealousy she had displayed. 
He had been quite right in telling her she was of a jealous disposi- 
tion, when they were first engaged. She was very jealous; although 
she had done her utmost to keep her jealousy under control, or to 
conceal it, she had yet felt jealous of every woman he had spoken 
to, of every word of praise bestowed by him ; at times she was even 
jealous of his cook! And now that he did not come and see her — 
for during the first few days the Vicar had resolved not to do so — 
and these reports were gathering and gaining ground, she felt in- 
tensely wretched. 

For himself he suffered much. He was a man of very strong 
feeling, and in every relationship of life his feelings, when touched, 
were touched deeply. 

He had loved his mother with an affection shown by few sons; 
he had been the most warm-hearted of friends, the stanchest of 
partisans. He could not be lukewarm. He loved his congregation 
with a genuine self -forgetting regard ; and now that he had given his 
heart to Ethel, he could not affect indifference, or play fast and loose 
with her, after the fashion of many modern lovers. 

He had intended, on her return from Templemore, to make her 
aware that he was in trouble, and ask her forbearance in not seek- 
ing to become acquainted with the nature of that trouble; but her 
doubts had so disturbed and distressed him that he no longer felt 
inclined to seek her. He loved her as much — that feeling was be- 
yond his control— but he was disappointed in her. Believing that 
it would be best for them both that they should not meet quite yet, 
he remained away. 

By this time Mr. Yorke had been made aware that something was 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


83 


wrong. He was greatly troubled. He was now a man of consider- 
able influence in Newfortli, partly owing to bis means and good 
family, partly to bis own dignified bearing, and to bis friendsbip 
with tbe Vincents and Mr. Manley. He bad a mortal liorror of 
morning visits, but, notwithstanding, be spent a considerable portion 
of bis afternoons now in calling witb bis wife on every one be knew 
in tbe place. Of course, in every bouse tbe Vicar was at present 
tbe prominent subject of conversation; and Yorke entering into it 
as a matter of course, used bis very utmost endeavors to laugb away 
any unpleasant bint that might arise, and would sometimes, in a 
casual way, acquaint people that be bad known Mr. Manley intimate- 
ly as a boy and young man, and considered that they were most 
fortunate in having him in their parish, as be was— be could speak 
from personal knowledge — one of the best men who ever lived. 
Whether to acquaint tbe Vicar witb what was going on against him 
be did not know. He decided at length that be would not; it would 
only add to his trouble, and do no good. 

It was now tbe end of August, and although, in tbe first instance, 
Mr. Manley bad expressed a wish to be married at tbe end of Sep- 
tember, still no preparations were made ; by mutual consent, latterly, 
tbe subject bad been avoided. But it had already been agreed that 
tbe wedding was to be as quiet as possible. There were to be nei- 
ther guests nor carriages ; neither was there to be any breakfast. Tbe 
bride and bridegroom were to be married early, and go away from 
tbe church doors on tbe short honeymoon of a fortnight, which was 
all the time the Vicar thought be could spare. She would, of course, 
be married in a travelling dress, and be bad requested that her 
trousseau should not be unnecessarily large, knowing as he did full 
well that any great outlay v/ould certainly hamper Admiral Hat- 
ton. 

While matters stood thus, Mr. Leslie met tbe Vicar one day in a 
road leading out of Newforth. Now tbe church- warden had long 
ago woke up to tbe idea that there were duties, and very serious 
duties, attached to bis office. He conceived that it was now one of 
them to interrogate Mr. Manley as to the reports that had arisen. 
Properly speaking, he knew this unpleasant duty should have be- 
longed to Admiral Hatton, as the people’s warden; but as yet the 
scandal had barely reached the Admiral. 

Owing to the engagement with his daughter, people were chary 
of communicating the Vicar’s supposed delinquencies to him; and 
also the Admiral was known to have a very hot temper, and to be 
quite incapable of keeping a secret. He would as likely as not have 
rushed otf to the Vicar, and in whatever place or company he had 
found him, demanded what he meant hy it\ and would probably pub- 
lish his answer to every one he met, until his anger had cooled down, 
and he had time to act reasonably. 

But it was not without very great reluctance that Mr. Leslie ap- 
proached the subject. Warm as was his regard for his Vicar, he 
was quite conscious that he was a man with whom even his greatest 
friend would not feel justified in taking a liberty. In this case he 


84 THE BACHELOE VICAE OF NEWFOETII. 

knew that one of the church- wardens must speak, and of the two 
he preferred it should be himself. 

He did not personally believe in one word of the truth of the re- 
ports; he had the most unbounded faith in his Vicar, in addition to 
his great liking for him. It was with a hesitation quite foreign 
to his nature that he opened the subject. 

Mr. Manley was returning from visiting a sick man in an out- 
lying district; the day was very warm and he looked tired. He 
was carrying some books which, on a former visit, he had lent the 
man. 

“Let me take them from you,” said Mr. Leslie; “ I have nothing 
to carry.” 

“We will divide them,” said the Vicar, cheerfully; “they are 
rather heavy on so warm a day. Thank you.” 

Feeling that any delay would only increase the difficulty, Mr. 
Leslie plunged at once into his subject. 

“Mr. Manley,” he said, abruptly, “ there are a pack of fools here 
who are ill-natured enough to spread reports to your disadvantage. 
It is with the very greatest dislike that I tell you this, and I don’t 
believe a syllable of it myself ; but I thought you ought to be told, 
in order that you might give me your authority for at once con- 
tradicting them, which I shall have the greatest pleasure in do- 
ing.” 

Once more an expression of deep concern overspread the Vicar’s 
thoughtful face. 

“Are these reports general, and extensively circulated?” be asked, 
gravely. 

“ Unfortunately they are.” 

“Will you kindly tell me what is said?” 

Mr. Leslie did so, blending his remarks with many indignant com- 
ments, and adding, “ I feel sure that you will tell me the rights of it, 
and we will soon put an end to this.” 

“ This is all I can tell you,” said the Vicar. “A man and wom- 
an are lodging at Fisherman’s Cove. He is ill; they are both in 
serious trouble, and in need of me and my services. This you can 
mention openly. As to some of the reports you have stated, I need 
scarcely assure you that they are entirely false. But I tell you in 
confidence — not as to a lawyer, but as to a friend, a hearty, sincere 
friend — that there will be serious mischief done if these reports are not 
silenced. Personally, I am not to blame.” 

“That I am quite sure of,” said Mr. Leslie, warmly; “I never 
thought you were. The nuisance of it is that when people once 
begin to talk, it is such a very difficult matter to stop them. , I suppose I 
may contradict that you ever met this woman in the dead of night.” 

“Not in the dead of night; but I have met her at ten o’clock at 
night. I_ candidly allow — still in confidence — that I did not wish 
our meeting to be made publie. Circumstances prevented my go- 
ing to her and her husband that evening, and to save time she came 
to meet me, on one occasion. I did not know we were watched.” 

“ If you met every woman in the parish in turn, night after night, 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


85 


I should think it no harm, and know there was a reason for it. Un- 
fortunately Other people won’t believe that.” 

The Vicar smiled. 

‘ ‘ I hope no such experience is likely to befall me ; I should very 
much object to meet every woman in the parish, or any woman in 
the parish. It has been, alas! a most painful necessity.” 

“ Am I to say so?” 

said the Vicar, with decision; “for the present, I would 
rather have as little said as possible. One of these days I shall be 
able to explain it to you. At present I must be more careful than I 
have been. Though openly visiting every one as I have ever done 
— many of them day after day in cases of illness — it is a mystery to 
me how reports as of something unusual should have got about. ” 

“ It is always the case that when you don’t want a thing to hap- 
pen it does happen, ” said Mr. Leslie. 

“ Is Admiral Hatton aware of this?” 

“ I do not think he is.” 

“Is Ethel?” 

“ I cannot say. I told my wife to be sure and not say anything; 
but I must honestly tell you there is a great deal said.” 

The Vicar’s great love arose in his heart; he longed to be with 
Ethel. ' 

“ I thank you, Leslie,” he said. “I will say good-bye now; I am 
going at once to the Hattons.” 

“I will leave the books for you at the vicarage,” returned Mr. 
Leslie; “ it will be on my road, and out of yours.” 

“You are very kind.” 

The Vicar walked on with a quick step, his mind fuller of Ethel 
and the cause for jealousy she might be feeling than of his own 
anxiety, and the injury the reports might cause him. 

In the lane he met her. She was dressed all in white; her face 
and figure looked very beautiful as she stood beneath the elm-trees. 
She carried some geraniums in her hand. 

“Ethel, my darling,” he said, hastening towards her, “lam very 
glad to see you. I want to have a long talk with you. We must 
not be estranged from one another, you know. If it has been my 
fault I am willing to make most ample amends. ” 

But in reply to this speech, which was most earnestly delivered, 
Ethel only gave a light laugh. 

“Ethel,” he said, gravely, “ I have told you that I wish to speak 
to you. Where can we speak quietly?” 

“If I had known you were coming to-day, Phil,” she replied, 
carelessly, “I would have stayed at home; but, as you never do 
come now, I have accepted an invitation to Mrs. Allen’s.” 

“Mrs. Allen’s!” said the Vicar. “lam surprised tliat you should 
go there, after what she has said about me, which you repeated to 
me yourself.” 

“ It is a garden-party,” returned Ethel, “and I was dull.” 

“ Is not your sister going?” 

She colored as she replied “No.” 


86 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


“ You can spare me a little time before you go, I suppose?” 

“ I really don’t think I can, Phil; I shall be late as it is.” 

“When can you see me?” 

“I really don’t know. Good-bye, Phil.” 

She walked on; he raised his hat, and stood still in his dismay 
and vexation. 

Miss Hatton came out at the garden-gate and held out her hand, 
shaking the Vicar’s warmly. 

“You are not going to the garden-party?” he said. 

“No” answered Miss Hatton, energetically. “ I should not tMnk 
of it after what that woman said here the other day. I told Ethel 
she had no right to go. I can’t think what has come over her 
lately; she isn’t like herself.” 

In truth, overpowering jealousy had come over her, completely 
warping her reason and judgment. She had heard all her more po- 
lite neighbors had to say, and in visiting her district had heard far 
more. The working classes being given to calling a spade not only 
a spade, but far more than a spade, had expressed their opinion in 
no measured terms, and Ethel, from want of knowledge, had been 
unable to contradict them. Their words added fuel to the flame, 
and she lived in wretchedness and anger. The Vicar’s character was 
torn to shreds among them— all his kindness, his goodness, his ear- 
nestness, served only to cause such speeches as these: “Lor, miss, 
and if he isn’t just what he should be, what does it matter? A kind 
gentleman like he, who is generous with his money. ” 

“I must see Ethel,” said the Vicar to Miss Hatton; “it is incred- 
ible that she should believe the worst of me. There are certain 
things it is my duty to tell her. I should have done so long ago, 
could I have foreseen any of this most unfortunate talk.” 

“Mr. Manley,” said Miss Hatton, earnestly, “if I were in Ethel’s 
place I should not require a word of explanation. You are a good 
man, I know, and that ought to be enough.” 

“Thank you, Gertrude,” said Mr. Manley; “I wish Ethel had 
your trust. Will you tell her from me that I expect her to appoint 
an interview with me?” 

“Yes; and perhaps,” she continued, with some hesitation— “ per- 
haps it might be as well for you not to go to the Cove just yet.” 

‘ ‘ I must go there, ” he replied, gravely. 


CHAPTER XX. 

TROUBLE. 

The Vicar was greatly distressed— distressed above measure. Any 
other trial he thought he would have borne better, but this scandal 
affected his usefulness, affected his work, and he was sure would 
injure the cause of religion, by making people believe he was a hypo- 
crite. . 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTU. 


87 


His voice became stern ; when not actively engaged in the service, 
he would lean against a column, with his head thrown slightly back, 
his white hand on his chin, his firm mouth set determinedly, an ex- 
pression of stern endurance on his face. Sometimes he would almost 
turn his back on the congregation, and lean his head on his hand. 
He was conscious that, instead of the glances of affectionate interest 
bestowed on him, the looks savored now more of curiosity than 
regard ; but he beheld as though he saw not. He did his duties as 
before, though his visiting among the poor had become a great 
trial. If he could have openly declared himself blameless, and stated 
all the circumstances, he would have done so ; he knew that he was 
compelled to hold his peace. 

“ Could I have foreseen this, nothing would have prevailed on me 
to give my word, ” he said to himself, ‘ ‘ on account of the harm that 
is being brought on all clergymen in my name ; but it is now useless 
to regret.” 

Many a time in the poorer streets did he hear insinuations thrown 
out as he passed, but he held his head a little higher, and took no 
heed. 

Ethel he had not seen, she went away suddenly for a week’s visit 
to some friends. He determined that she should see him on her re- 
turn, whether willingly or not. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE ENGAGEMENT BROKEN. 

The Vicar and Mr. Yorke were now often seen in earnest consul- 
tation. 

“You have made a great mistake, Phil, I am afraid, out of sheer 
kindness of heart,” said Mr. Yorke, who, since his friend had been 
in trouble, never addressed him otherwise than as “Phil,” lingering 
over the name as though to give him a proof of his sincere friend- 
ship; for Mr. Yorke was most warmly attached to Mr. Manley. 

“lam afraid I have,” returned the Vicar, “but it is now too late 
to turn back.” 

“It is the ultimate consequences I am thinking of,” said Yorke. 

“You mean that I might be compelled to resign my living; that 
would indeed be a great trouble.” 

But there were even worse consequences in Mr. Yorke’s mind 
than that. 

“ Is it even yet too late to state the truth?” he asked. 

“It is too late; I cannot do it, Yorke.” And thoughts passed 
through the Vicar’s mind, as certain possibilities arose before him, 
which made him look very sad. 

Of late he had lost his appearance of youth; he looked his full age. 
He was still strong and vigorous as ever; his face was even finer in 
its expression of determination, but there was care in his eyes. 


88 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Ethel returned late one evening. While she had been away her 
thoughts had rested almost entirely on Mr. Manley, and she saw she 
had been greatly to blame. At least she could hear what he had to 
say. She wrote him a note appointing a meeting out of doors the 
next day, at a place some little distance down the high-road. He 
replied, by her messenger, that he would not fail to be there. 

On this evening Admiral Hatton was dining out. It was a gentle- 
man’s dinner-party; some fourteen were present. 

After dinner the conversation turned on the unfortunate Vicar, 
and the guests, warmed with their wine, and forgetting the position 
of his daughter, retailed to the Admiral all the various reports which 
had been circulating for so long. 

The old gentleman started up in a fury. “I’ll not believe it; I 
can’t believe it of Manley. I have always found him a good man 
and a gentleman. Where shall I find him, I wonder? I will go to 
him this minute. ” 

“Oh,” said Mr. Campbell, who was of the party, “ he is probably 
to be found at Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” roared the Admiral; “what do you 
mean by that?” 

“No, sir,” said Mr. Campbell, firmly (who was perfectly sober 
and collected), ‘ ‘ I will not hold my tongue. I distinctly saw him go 
down the road towards the Cove half an hour ago. If it wasn’t him 
it must have been his ghost.” 

“ I will go to him,” said the Admiral, and, turning to his host, con- 
tinued, “you must excuse me. Smith.” 

“With pleasure,” returned Mr. Smith, who, under the circum- 
stances, was extremely glad to see the Admiral’s back. 

“We can talk in peace now,” he said. 

“Won’t he give the parson a wigging, that’s all!” said Mr. Camp- 
bell, “and serve him jolly well right! This comes of all your i)ro- 
fession of goodness!” 

“I don’t know what to think,” said Mr. Smith. “I could have 
sworn the Vicar was as good a man as ever breathed.” 

“I believe he is now,” said young Mr. Allen; “I dare say it’s 
more than half lies.” 

“It is a great pity he should be so much at the Cove,” said Mr. 
Smith. 

Meantime the Admiral’s indignation was lending him wings. He 
sped along the high-road in a manner totally unprecedented for him, 
arriving at the entrance to the Cove breathless. He saw a light in 
Mrs. Stevens’s cottage as he made his way cautiously down the cliff ; 
the other houses were dark, shut up for the night. 

It was now ten o’clock, and a most lovely evening. There was no 
moon, but the stars were shining over the sea. He heard the dip of 
oars,^ and thought he could discern the hull of a large fishing-boat 
making her way slowly towards the Cove, but he was not quite sure. 

He looked about for the door of Mrs. Stevens’s cottage, quite de- 
termined to make his way in and ask for the Vicar. But at first he 
could not find it. He found himself beneath an open window, and 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


89 


caught the tones of Mr. Manley’s deep voice. There were shutters 
of lattice-work across the window, which shut from the outside ; he 
cautiously opened one a little way and looked in, excusing himself 
on the ground that it was a work of necessity. And this is what he 
saw. A poorly-furnished sitting-room, its sole occupants the Vicar 
and a very pretty woman in humble attire, and the pretty woman 
was in the Vicar’s arms. 

“God bless you, my dearest Mary!” he heard, in the clergyman’s 
well-known tones, his voice ringing with the deepest feeling; “good- 
bye, dear, and may God be with you,” and then he kissed her three 
or four times. 

The Admiral closed the window-shutter with a bang, although the 
noise was unobserved by those within. 

“The scoundrel!” he exclaimed, “the vile, hypocritical scoundrel! 
the whole parish shall hear of this. He shall not stay in Newforth 
another week. ” 

He would have made his way into the cottage there and then had 
he not caught sight of the Vicar’s active form ascending the clitfs 
with a quick step. But it was in vain that he endeavored to over- 
take him. The Admiral’s previous exertions had somewhat ex- 
hausted him, and by the time he had gained the summit Mr. Manley 
was completely out of sight. 

Admiral Hatton paused to rest for a few minutes. As he waited 
he again heard the dip of oars, and thought he saw the large boat 
leave the shore. 

He arrived at home furious. “If it wasn’t so late I would go to 
the vicarage at once,” he said. 

“Much better sleep over it, father,” said Miss Hatton, who had re- 
mained up, and had heard the narrative with some concern. “Per- 
haps the Vicar will be able to explain it satisfactorily.” 

“ A scoundrel would not mind being a liar,” retorted the Admiral. 

“ That Mr. Manley couldn’t be,” said Miss Hatton, with much 
warmth. 

“ Go to bed,” returned her father, “and don’t talk about what you 
don’t understand.” At a quarter to eight o’clock the next morning, 
just before the service, the Vicar received a note, written in great 
haste evidently, with scrawls and blotches on its pages. It ran thus: 

“Mr. Manley, — I demand an explanation of your conduct last 
night, on my daughter’s account, and also on account of the parish- 
ioners of Newforth. H. T. Hatton.” 

The bell was even then ringing for service; the Vicar put the let- 
ter in his pocket and crossed over to the church. It was his custom 
to divide the service with Mr. Bowen, but on this occasion he signi- 
fied his intention of taking the entire service ; otherwise he knew he 
could not keep his thoughts from dwelling on the letter in his pocket. 

He read with deep feeling, and remained kneeling afterwards a 
little longer than usual. At breakfast-time he pondered on the an- 
swer he should give. 

It appeared to him as something very marvellous that every action 


90 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


of his should be brought to light, but his thoughts did not long dwell 
on this point. The Admiral evidently knew of his farewell of the 
preceding evening, and what could he say?— explanations he could 
give none. 

He resolved to see Ethel first, and as she had appointed eleven for 
their meeting, he wrote to Admiral Hatton, saying he would be at 
his house at two o’clock. 

Now' Miss Hatton had requested her father, as a particular favor, 
that he would say nothing to Ethel of what he had seen until the 
Vicar had been allowed to explain it. She carried her point with 
much difficulty, but finally prevailed, so that it was with an un- 
clouded brow and tolerably light heart that Ethel advanced to meet 
him at the appointed time and place. He read in her face in a mo- 
ment that she had heard no fresh news, and was glad of it. 

“Now, Phil,” she said, brightly, “I have come to hear all you 
have to tell me, and I have also come quite prepared to be scolded 
for my past conduct.” 

He smiled, very much pleased. 

“Would it be too far for ypu to go to the wood, my darling?” he 
asked; “we cannot talk very well in the high-road.” 

“Not at all,” she answered, readily, “I have always loved that 
wood ever since — ever since — you know.” 

“And so have I,” he replied, heartily. “I never spent such an 
hour in my life as that in which I first walked through the Wood with 
you.” 

“ And, Phil, I hope you have come to tell me that it has been en- 
tirely false, what has been said about you and the Cove, and that you 
don’t like any one else better than me, and that after this there is go- 
ing to be nothing but peace betw'een us.” 

“ I can most truthfully tell you that I do not like any one else bet- 
ter than you,” he replied, earnestly; “and I most assuredly hope 
there is going to be nothing but peace between us; but for the rest, 
Ethel, I shall be compelled to appeal to your love and forbearance.” 

He winced slightly as he spoke. 

“ On account of — those people?” she said, slowly. 

“Even so.” 

After this there was complete silence between them, until they en- 
tered the wood and walked towards the narrow, winding paths. 

No longer hand in hand, no longer so filled with sentiment of the 
highest kind that even words were not necessary. Instead of this 
there were a man and woman keenly impressed with the hard nature 
of the realities of life, and care and distrust walked between them. 

A great many leaves had already fallen ; they lay in heaps about 
their feet. The trees looked dull and sombre, and the day, though 
warm, was not bright. The sea in the distance showed occasionally 
through the branches ; it looked grayish-green. 

As the trees began to meet overhead he turned to her. 

“Ethel,” he said, gently, “remember what we talked of in this 
very place— remember our love and our trust, and hear me now.” 

“Yes, Phil,” she answered, placing her hand in his. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


91 


“ Circumstances have arisen, my darling, for which I am in no 
degree responsible; that is to say, as to their primary causes. These 
have placed me in a most ambiguous position apparently. I have 
given my most sacred word that I will not reveal them even to you, 
though had I known the evil results of this promise I should not 
have done so. In one way, however, perhaps it is best. Had I con- 
fided in you, your father would still have insisted on your breaking 
otf your engagement (and that he will now try to make you do so I 
am sure of) ; and when you declined — and I think you will decline, 
my darling — he would have urged you for your reasons for faith in 
me. If lie knew them, every one would know them, and that must 
not be. I ask you now, Ethel, to believe in me without reasons, and 
in the face of slanderous reports, because you love me and know 
that I love you with all my heart.” 

“But why should my father try to break otf our engagement more 
now than a week ago?” 

The Vicar flushed slightly. 

“ A circumstance took place last night which in some manner has 
become known to him. I will tell it to you with my own lips, Ethel, 
entreating, you to believe that I have done no wrong, and were it left 
to my own free will I would tell you everythiTig.'’ 

“What is it?” said the girl, withdrawing her hand and facing 
him, 

“Before I tell you let me assure you of one thing, my darling — 
that this reserve is only for a time. It is not my intention to keep 
a secret from you for all time; trust me for three months, Ethel, 
only for three months. Three months will probably put an end to 
all secrecy — six must. Delay our marriage till then, if you prefer it 
— though to me this will be a great trial — but trust me for that 
time.” 

“ I will try to do so,” she replied, gravely, “though I wish there 
were not obliged to be secrets between us. Now, what is it that my 
father knows?” 

The Vicar still delayed his communication; he called his dog, 
who had accompanied him, and sent him away again in search of a 
stick. Then he spoke resolutely, 

“Last night, my darling, I went to see those people at the Cove. 
After this they will trouble you no more. I said good-bye to her 
alone, and I took her in my arms and kissed her. That is what your 
father will tell you. ” 

Her eyes sparkled angrily. ‘‘You did this, Phil! You? And she 
a married woman!” 

“And she a married woman,” he repeated, sadly; “but I declare 
to you before God that I am free of blame.” 

- “You need not asseverate so strongly,” she replied, coldly; “I 
suppose your affection was Platonic, but it is carrying matters rather 
far, I think.” 

“Ethel!” he returned, “have you lost all your faith in me?” 

She looked into his earnest eyes and saw how his face glowed with 
deep feeling. 


92 


THE BACHELOE VICAE OF NEWFOETH. 


*‘Phil,” she said, quickly, I love you so dearly; I will have faith 
in you even now if you will tell me that you did not love her, al- 
though you kissed her.” 

He made no reply. 

Did you, do you love her, Phil?” she asked, wildly. 

“ I do not love her in the same way as I do you — or as much. I 
love you more than all, Ethel.” 

She turned from him. 

“ I will not have your love, if it he shared by others. I told you 
I would give you my opinion of you at Christmas; I will give it 
now, if you wish — I have lost my respect for you.” 

He held out his hands and spoke, facing her. 

“I appeal to you for the last time, Ethel. Has not my love spoken, 
has not my manner of life spoken during the time you have known 
me? Let the past be forgotten until such time as I can explain it, 
and trust me for the future.” 

For a moment she wavered, her love almost turning the balance 
in his favor. And then her conscience stepped in and she felt she 
could not love him if she did not reverence him; and how should 
she do so knowing what she knew? The accusations she had heard 
returned in fullest force. 

“ I can't, Phil, I can't. You will be my clergyman as well as my 
lover, and my faith in you will be gone,” she said, brokenly. 

“Go, then,” he replied, sternly; “from henceforth go out of mj’’ 
life. You who have no trust can have no love.” 

She stood still— the consciousness of what she was losing coming 
over her — and remained thus until he took her bv the *arm and led 
her until they reached the high-road. He opened the gate for her, 
but did not pass through himself. 

“ Go,” he said again, but this time very gently, “and may God be 
with you also!” 

Then, leaving her, he plunged into the thickest recesses of the dusky 
woods, and lay down on his face, covering his eyes with his hands, 
which, when he removed them at length, were wet with tears. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 

Punctually at two o’clock the Vicar presented himself at Ad- 
miral Hatton’s gates. Miss Hatton met him, her rich color man- 
tling in her face. 

“ I want to speak to you a moment, Mr. Manley,” she said, “be- 
fore you see my father. Ethel has been telling me something of 
what passed between you this morning. I am ashamed of my sister. 
Were I in her place nothing would have made me lose my faith in 
you. I have not lost it now.” 

“ I thank you. Miss Hatton,” he returned, gravely. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


93 


The “Miss Hatton,” instead of “Gertrude,” struck her. 

“Is your parting final?” she asked, in anxiety. 

“It is quite final,” he replied. 

“Ethel is a fool,” said Miss Hatton, sharply, and turning away 
with tears in her eyes. 

At the front door the Vicar heard Admiral Hatton’s voice, and 
could not avoid listening to the words — “I saw him kissing and 
hugging her with my own eyes, Mrs. Leslie, before my very face.” 

“Did he see you?” he heard, in Mrs. Leslie’s quiet tones, and the 
rejoinder struck his quick ears. 

“Not he; I looked through the window,” 

“Oh!” returned Mrs. Leslie, with more expression in the word 
than the Vicar had thought possible. 

Then the door was opened, but Mr. Manley refused to be shown 
into the drawing-room; he said he would wait in the hall until the 
Admiral was made aware of his presence. It was rather a shabby 
hall as to furniture, but the girls invariably brightened it with great 
pots of flowers and flowering shrubs. The Vicar thought of Ethel, 
and hoped that at least the sight of her might be spared him. All 
traces of liis recent agitation had left him ; he wore his usual com- 
posed demeanor. As he stood in the hall he heard the Admiral ex- 
claim, in loud tones, “Of course I looked through the window; I 
would look through twenty windows, if it concerned the happiness 
of my girls;” and again Mrs. Leslie’s voice replied, “ Oh!” The Ad- 
miral then came out, looking very red and tumbled, his hair pushed 
off his forehead, his necktie on one side. He glanced at the Vicar’s 
scrupulously correct costume with some disdain. 

“You don’t look like a man in any anxiety,” he said, grufliy, 
“with your smug appearance and collar as white as snow. Look 
at me.” 

The Vicar did look at him — looked him full in the face. 

“You must excuse me, sir,” he said, quietly, “but I have not 
come here to-day to listen to remarks on my personal appearance. 
I shall be glad if you will enter on your business with me without 
delay, as I am really pressed for time.” 

The Admiral led the way into the dining-room, which was empty, 
and sat down in an arm-chair. The Vicar remained standing. 

“Why don’t you take a chair?” said Admiral Hatton, testily. 

“ Thank you, I prefer to stand,” said the Vicar, courteously; “I 
do not suppose you will detain me long.” 

“You can’t possibly have any excuse to make for yourself. Man- 
ley, you know; still I am willing to give you the chance. What did 
you mean by your conduct last night, kissing that wretched woman 
in my very presence?” 

The Vicar’s eyes flashed. 

“I am prepared to be called to account by you. Admiral Hatton,” 
he replied, sternly; “but I utterly decline to listen to imputations 
against one who is as good a woman as ever lived.” 

“Very well,” returned the Admiral, promptly; “well, leave the 
woman out of the question. What did you mean by it, sir?” and 


94 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


again raising his voice and thumping his hand on the table, “ I say, 
what did you mean by it?” 

“ Were I speaking to you simply on the ground of being one gen- 
tleman in the presence of another, I should decline entirely to an- 
swer your question,” said the Vicar, speaking in the tone of author- 
ity he sometimes used when giving advice; “but as I admit you 
have been placed in different relations to me, although those rela- 
tions will now be severed, I am willing to clear myself as far as I 
am able. But first you must allow me to inquire by what right you 
made yourself a spy on my actions, and looked into a private room?” 

“Right!” roared the Admiral, “by every right. I’m not at all 
ashamed of it, and I’ll publish that, and your conduct, all over the 
place.” 

“In that case,” said the Vicar, gravely, “ I entirely refuse to offer 
you any explanation of my conduct. ” 

He threw his head somewhat back as he spoke; his face was set 
and determined. 

“You decline, do you?” said the Admiral, in the same loud tones; 
“but I’ll make you. You seem to have entirely forgotten, young 
man, that I am church-warden to the people of Newforth. I will 
call a meeting, and you shall account for yourself, my fine fellow.” 

“I have- by no means forgotten the fact,” said the Vicar, sternly; 
“lam quite prepared to attend that meeting, and justify myself as 
far as I am able. But as you have shown me no courtesy on this 
occasion, and as my engagement with your daughter is now broken 
off, I prefer to say nothing further on the subject to you, except in 
your otficial capacity. It is exceedingly painful to me that my last 
visit to a house where I have received much kindness should be of 
the nature of this.” 

Admiral Hatton felt some remorse. 

“You needn’t go off in such a hurry; sit down and tell me what 
it really means.” 

“As you purpose calling a meeting, sir,” said the Vicar, gently, 
“I should really prefer reserving what I have to say. It is very 
painful to a man to be called on to defend himself many times over, 
especially a man in my position. Added to which I am really 
pressed for time. I have made an appointment for a certain hour.” 

“ Where are you going?” asked Admiral Hatton, suspiciously. 

“That, sir, can scarcely matter to you,” returned the Vicar, his 
courteous manner in full force. 

“It does matter to me,” said the Admiral. 

“lam going to answer your question, sir,” said the Vicar, coldly, 
“ though I decline to allow your right to put it. I am now going 
to Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“ Get out of my house, sir,” thundered the Admiral. 

“Most assuredly I shall go out of your house,” returned the Vicar, 
with dignity, and walked out of the room. 

Miss Hatton stopped him on the door-steps, and wrung his hands. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Manley; I know you won’t come here again, but 
God bless you ’’—and here her voice broke. 


TUE BACUELOR VICAR OF NEWPORTH. 


95 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE PARISHIONERS’ MEETING. 

On leaving Fisherman’s Cove, where he remained talking to Mrs. 
Stevens for some quarter of an hour, and looking into the now emp- 
ty rooms, the Vicar called at Mr. Yorke’s. Yorke took him into the 
library. 

“It is a most serious business for you, Phil,” he said, when he had 
listened to Mr. Manley — “a most serious business.” 

“ It is,” said the Vicar, gravely. “And what shall you say at the 
meeting?’’ 

“What' can I say?” replied his friend, gravely. “I cannot undo 
all the work that has been done. I wish to goodness that you had 
had neither part nor lot in the affair,” he said, earnestly. “I live 
in constant fear for you.” 

“I am prepared possibly to lose my church; I have already lost 
my future wife; I do not see what worse can befall me.” 

“But I do,” thought Yorke. 

He remained silent for some moments. 

“ I shall see Vincent on this matter,” he said; “ he has great in- 
fluence in the town.” 

The Vicar by no means relished this. It was very hard to him to 
think that another man’s influence was required to rehabilitate him 
in the eyes of his own people, but he made no sign. 

At five o’clock he took the service, his face very grave, but not 
sadder than usual. It seemed specially to comfort him this after- 
noon; he remained on his knees a long time, and walked into the 
vestry aRerwards with a look of quiet peace on his countenance. Miss 
Hatton was present. On her return she went up to her sister, who 
had been crying bitterly in her own room. 

“How you can believe anything wrong of a man who has such a 
noble face passes my comprehension, Ethel, ” she said, impatiently. 
“I haven’t a single grain of sympathy for you. I would marry him 
to-morrow, and be sure whatever he did was right.” 

“ I do not want your sympathy,” said Ethel; “ I want to be by 
myself.” 

“ You are very miserable, I know, and you deserve to he,'' said her 
sister, as she left the room. 

Yorke went over to Orton and saw Captain Vincent. But the 
latter was by no means enthusiastic on the subject of the Vicar’s 
wrongs. 

“ It’s an awkward business,” he said, reflectively; “ any other man 


96 


THE BACnELOR VIGAR OF NEWFORTH. 


may do as he pleases, but there shouldn’t be a breath of suspicion on 
a clergyman.” 

“But, Rupert,” said his wife, earnestly, '‘please do anything you 
can for that nice Mr. Manley. I am sure it is totally false about 
him.” 

“It is totally false, Mrs. Vincent,” said Yorke. “I speak from 
personal knowledge, though I am not allowed to state what I know.” 

“By your own account he has shown a great want of prudence,” 
said Captain Vincent. “ I really don’t see what I can do.” 

‘ ‘ I thought you might attend the meeting which is called for next 
Saturday, and support him.” 

“I don’t think I can do that,” returned Captain Vincent, dubi- 
ously — to his wife’s intense disappointment. “But if they want to 
take away his living, or anything of that sort, I will do what I can. 
I really don’t feel strongly enough on the subject to be present as 
one of his supporters.” 

The meeting was arranged for Saturday evening ; it was to be held 
at eight o’clock, at the Town Hall. Admiral Hatton had summoned 
the mayor and all the principal members of the congregation, to the 
intense disgust of Mr. Leslie. 

“It is infamous,” he declared; “it’s the most indecent thing I 
ever heard of. Instead of allowing the Vicar to explain himself, 
quietly and privately, here he is put on his trial before a whole mob 
of people.” 

High words had ensued between the church-wardens in conse- 
quence, Admiral Hatton having given it as his reason that he would 
not have all the responsibility placed on his shoulders. Indeed, in 
place of the former friendliness that reigned, there was now dissen- 
sion all over the parish. Fierce discussions were everywhere taking 
place as to whether the Vicar had failed in his duty or not; it was 
no longer the same town. 

The Town Hall was almost full by a quarter to eight, for others 
besides the heads of families had asked for admittance. At eight 
o’clock punctually the Vicar appeared, followed by Mr. Yorke and 
Mr. Leslie. He walked up the hall with his usual quick step and 
manly bearing, and, though thoroughly conscious that every eye was 
upon him, he gave no sign that he knew it. 

Now, the mayor had prepared a very bombastic speech by way of 
opening the proceedings, but the Vicar had been too long master in 
his own parish to permit this. He stepped on to the platform and 
at once began to speak. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, courteously, his quick eye taking in nearly 
all the people of whom the audience was composed, “you have 
summoned me here to-night in order to hear my explanation of a 
great many scandalous reports that have arisen concerning me. As 
to most of them I beg to assure you that they are entirely false ; and 
as to some of them I am now ready to answer, to the best of my 
ability, any questions you are pleased to put to me, reserving my 
right to decline to answer any if I see fit.” 

As soon as he had finished speaking, Mr. Leslie rose. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


97 


“ Before any more is said,” he said, earnestly, “I wish, as one of 
the church-wardens of the parish, to declare my most hearty disap- 
proval of this meeting, and to assert that I require no explanation 
whatever from our good Vicar, with whose conduct in every respect 
I am more than satisfied.” 

An ominous silence followed this speech, except for “hear” from 
Yorke. 

The mayor then began to speak, but his oration was too elaborate 
for the impatient audience. All sorts of questions addressed to the 
Vicar interrupted its delivery. 

“What did you go to the Cove for?” “Are you innocent or 
guilty?” “ Who is the woman?” “ What business had you to visit 
her so often?” and so on, mixed with direct accusations and coarsest 
insinuations; for the audience by no means consisted entirely of gen- 
tlemen, and more than one specimen of the British workman, in his 
Sunday clothes, sat grinning in a corner, admitted by favor of the 
verger. It was a time of intense pain to the Vicar, but he stood 
his ground as firmly as a rock, and faced his — good heavens!— his 
friends. 

“ I think it would facilitate matters,” he said, in his quietest voice 
— yet so as to be heard in every part of the room — “ if I were to 
make a statement to you, as it is utterly impossible for me to answer 
the unlooked-for number of your questions.” 

“A man and woman, with whom I was acquainted, came to 
Fisherman’s Cove. Owing to his illness and her necessities I visited 
them frequently, and on one or two occasions, of importance to them, 
I met her out of doors. But I pledge you my most solemn word, 
as a clergyman and a gentleman, that nothing took place between us 
that was in the slightest degree wrong.” 

•‘Weren’t yer seen kissing her through the window?” from a 
voice. 

“Gentlemen,” continued the Vicar, “there are certain circum- 
stances which I cannot at present explain to you— most painful cir- 
cumstances — but again I pledge you my most sacred word that if 
you will have patience for six months I will then explain all to you. 
During this time, if you prefer it, I will go away, leaving the duty 
in Mr. Bowen’s hands. ” 

Now Mr. Bowen had altogether declined to be present, his mind 
as yet not being made up which side to take. 

“That won’t do,” said the mayor, bluntly; “ you’re either fit to go 
or to stay. If you ’ave any excuse, give it; if not, you ’ad better go 
altogether.” 

“ Gentlemen, I have no more to say,” returned the Vicar; “ I leave 
you to talk over this matter among yourselves.” 

He left the room followed by Mr. Yorke; Mr. Leslie remained. 

A babel of voices then arose. One said one thing, one another. 
Then Mr. Leslie at- last made himself heard. 

“ I wonder you’re not all ashamed of this,” he said, “after all Mr, 
Manley has done in this parish, and what he has made of it,” 

Conflicting voices, “kissing ” heard. 


98 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“And,” he continued, his zeal having now completely outrun his 
discretion, “if I knew that he kissed every married woman in the 
parish, I yet wouldn’t believe he did it in the way of harm.” 

“ You may like your wife kissed,” said one; “/don’t like miney 

“ How do we know she wasn’t his cousin? How do we know she 
wasn’t his grandmother?” retorted Mr. Leslie. 

A roar of laughter followed, in the midst of which Mr. Leslie 
walked out. But his speech caused the quieter members of the audi- 
ence to consult together. 

“ Had he a sister?” they asked. 

It was, however, decided that this was impossible; no one had 
ever heard him mention a sister, while he had often spoken openly 
of his brothers. 

Certain members of the congregation then clustered together, 
headed by Admiral Hatton, and after much talking came to the con- 
clusion they would at once send a note to the Vicar, asking him to 
resign or exchange his living; failing this, they would appeal to the 
bishop. He was to give them his decision on Monday. But before 
their messenger had left the vicarage gate he was recalled, while the 
Vicar wrote his answer. It was transcribed hurriedly, his firm hand- 
writing ending in dashes. 

Mr. Manley would not resign ; the congregation should appeal to 
the bishop. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

HEARTBURNINGS. 

The Vicar administered the communion, as usual, at eight o’clock 
the next morning. But the number of communicants was but small, 
and he was fully conscious it was because many of his parishioners 
would not now receive it from his hands. 

As he came into church at eleven, behind the choir and the curate, 
he was again aware that every eye was upon him to see how he was 
bearing his troubles. There was a great sadness on his face, but, 
with the exception of the time when the Creeds were read, not once 
did he turn away from the congregation, or cover his face with his 
hand. His bearing was dignified and reverent, as it had ever been, 
and he seemed absorbed by the service. His sermon was plain and 
practical, as usual, delivered in his most earnest manner. Now a 
brother clergyman of his, on being most unjustly assailed by his 
•parishioners, had preached from the text, “Be not afraid of them, 
neither be afraid of their words; though briars and thorns, be with 
thee, and thou dost dwell among scorpions,” and had launched out 
at his people in such a manner that a joke immediately circulated 
throughout the place, “Are you a scorpion or a thorn?” But to 
make use of his pulpit in such a manner would have been to Mr. 
Manley simply desecration. His reverence for the church itself had 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


99 


alwa5’'s been very marked ; he had entirely declined giving out 
notices of church entertainments, etc., therein, which at first the 
church-wardens had requested him to do ; and to preach at his peo- 
ple, instead of to them, was what he could not have done. 

Ethel Hatton was not in church — she felt she could not face him. 

After the congregation had dispersed, the Vicar and Mr. Leslie 
stood outside the vestry door, looking down at the shipping and the 
beautiful sea in the distance. 

“ ‘Where every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile,’ ” 

said the church- warden, laying most abundant energy on the word 
vile, and shaking his fist at the backs of the departing congregation. 

Mr. Manley smiled. 

“ Their rendering would be — 

‘Where every prospect pleases, 

And only the Vicar is vile.’” 

“Yes, "said Mr. Leslie, indignantly, “ I feel like the man — Julius 
Caesar, wasn’t it? — who said he wished all Rome had but one neck, 
so that he could cut olf its head. Oh, wasn’t it Julius Caesar? 
Well, it wds some other fellow then; I never was up in history.’’ 

“I have heard the speech attributed to another man,’’ said the 
Vicar; “but it is well you cannot carry out your wishes. I am not 
anxious to preach to empty walls.’’ 

He felt it as a relief to speak lightly for a few moments, his heart 
was so very sore. His usual Sunday duty was very heavy ; indeed, 
on one occasion, Mrs. Leslie had made it an actual subject of com- 
plaint. 

“ I assure you it quite worries me to think of all you do on Sun- 
day, while we are enjoying ourselves. Early communion, opening 
of Sunday-schools, eleven-o’clock service, communion again, open- 
ing of afternoon school, afternoon service, christening, Bible-class, 
and evening service. It is entirely too much. The four services a 
day are quite enough for any two men.” 

“You should not waste your sympathy in that unnecessary man- 
ner,” he had replied. 

“lam quite aware that you don’t thank me, Mr. Manley, but I re- 
peat, it is too much.” 

“I can rest on Monday.” 

“You ought, but do you?” 

He smiled. 

“I have no doubt I do not do a great many things that I 
ought. ” 

But on this Sunday the Vicar made over the whole afternoon duty 
to Mr. Rowen, with the exception of opening the schools. He spoke 
a few kindly words, placing his hand on the heads of one or two of 
the little boys as he often did, and making some pleasant remark to 
them, and then he went to the vicarage. 

He locked his study door, and remained alone until it was time to 


100 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


prepare for evening service, when he appeared at the church, look- 
ing calm and grave and at peace. 

On her road home Miss Hatton met Mr. Rowen. 

“ And what did you mean by not supporting your Vicar at the 
meeting last night, Mr. Rowen?” she said, sharply. 

The unfortunate curate reddened, and was heard to murmur some- 
thing about “ Admiral Hatton,” and “your father.” 

“Oh, yes, I know my father was against him; and though I don’t 
agree with my father in the least, still he thought he had grounds. 
Pray, what grounds have you .?” 

‘ ‘ Really— really, ” stammered Mr. Rowen. 

“ Of course not; I knew you had none. And after all the kindness 
he has shown you too. If I have heard him stand up for you once, 
I have fifty times. And a nice return you have made!” 

This roused even Mr. Rowen. 

“And how do you know I do not intend to support him, Miss Hat- 
ton? I had not made up my mind last night.” 

“You had better be quick about it,” she returned. “ If, after all 
you know of Mr. Manley, you can’t make up your mind now, you 
certainly never will. I for one shall be thoroughly ashamed of you, 
if you desert him.” 

There is sometimes a great power in directness of speech when 
thoroughly sincere; Mr. Rowen made up his mind that he would 
stand by his Vicar. 

The Hatton family were now in a most uncomfortable condition. 
The Admiral was thoroughly cross, Mrs. Hatton disappointed and 
vexed. Miss Hatton intensely indignant, and Ethel intensely wretch- 
ed. In her own mind Mrs. Hatton deserved the most sympathy. 
The others had sentimental grievances, she a tangible one. Here 
was Ethel deliberately throwing away a chance of getting well set- 
tled in life. The Vicar was a nice, kind man, came of a good 
family, and had fully five hundred a year, which in these hard 
times was a very good prospect for a penniless girl. What would 
her daughters have to live on when their father died, she would 
like to know? There was no provision made for them. Go out as 
governesses? Ridiculous. It was a wretched life, and for every 
situation there were at least fifty applicants. Oh, it was cruel, to 
throw away their chances as they were doing! There was Gertrude, 
deliberately snubbing Mr. Campbell, who was well off, that is for a 
naval officer. Every one knew that army and navy people were 
poor, but so proud; and how much better to keep up your pride 
with money. Perhaps the Vicar had been a little foolish. Well — 
he was a young man, and couldn’t always be a saint. If he did kiss 
the woman, probably there was no harm in it — it might have been 
a sudden impulse, and he would not do such a thing when he had a 
wife of his own. As for the manner in which the Admiral was rav- 
ing about him, it was simply absurd. Oh, there was nothing but 
trouble! Instead of Ethel being married in September, she would 
be now always at home, and all the Christmas bills 'would be com- 
ing in, and she was sure she didn’t know what every one was going 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


101 


to do. Ethel miserable? If she was miserable she had nothing to 
do but to make it up again with Mr. Manley. He was always so 
kind and so fond of her that he would do anything she asked him. 

“ If she asked him from now till next week he wouldn’t take her 
back, mother,” said Miss Hatton — “not if she went on her knees to 
him. ” 

“Nonsense,” returned Mrs. Hatton. 

“He wouldn’t; I am sure of it. And why should he? Girls are 
not so scarce that he couldn’t get another wife if he pleased. He 
must be sick of girls.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE PROJECTED APPEAL. 

Finding that Mr. Manley had resolved not to resign, another 
meeting was summoned by the mayor and Admiral Hatton, for the 
purpose of preparing an appeal to the bishop. On being informed 
of this by' Mr, Leslie, Mr. Yorke at once went down to Templemore 
to see Captain Vincent. He found Mr. Fortescue there also. 

“ What do you want me to do?” asked Captain Vincent, when the 
case had been stated to him. “I liked what I saw of IVIr. Manley 
very much ; still we know perfectly well that there are black sheep 
among clergymen, and many of them,” 

“That man isn’t one,” said Mr, Fortescue, with determination. 
“ I am not a parson-lover myself, but I know him to be a good man. 
I can see it in his face-, a hypocrite never had his expression yet.” 

“ Rupert,” said Mrs. Vincent, appealingly, “ do try to help him,” 

“ He needs help,” returned Yorke, gravely. 

“/ would help him if I could; if I had a living in my gift he 
should have it to-morrow,” said Mr. Fortescue, who rarely evinced 
any interest in any human being save his wife and child. 

“I give in,” said Captain Vincent, “as you are all against me. 
But, mind you, I only do so under pressure. I won’t go; I’ll write. 
The mayor was most obsequious to me one day when I went there 
officially; turned out the whole corporation to receive me, and I had 
to listen to the vilest speech it ever was my lot to hear. Added to 
which, a most odious brass band played completely out of tune.” 

Yorke laughed. 

“That band is well known in Newforth; it is Manley’s mortal 
aversion; but occasionally, by way of honoring him, they play 
just under his windows.” 

“ Do you think it would do any good to ask the mayor over here 
—horrid old wretch as he is?” said Mrs. Vincent. 

“I can’t stand that, my child,” said her husband; “you must 
help Mr. Manley some other way. I can’t hear at my table, ‘ Your 
’ealth. Captain Vincent, and ’appiness to your good lady,’ and look 
up to see the butler grinning at my elbow.” 


102 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ He wouldn’t grin long,” said Mrs. Vincent, “ or a second time,” 
for Captain Vincent ruled liis household most completely. 

^50 Yorke was compelled to depart accompanied only by a note, 
which was very short. He gave it to Mr. Leslie, who, when the 
meeting was at its stormiest (for every one wanted something differ- 
ent), presented it to the mayor. The contents were that Captain Vin- 
cent would take it as a personal favor if no appeal were made to the 
bishop for the present. 

“Who’s Captain Vincent, I should like to know, that he should 
dictate to me?” thundered Admiral Hatton. “A man who was a 
captain in the army, ranking with a junior lieutenant, talking to me, 
an Admiral in the British Navy !” 

“ Allow me to observe, in the most delicate manner in the world,” 
said Mr, Leslie, who was now at daggers-drawn with his co-church- 
warden, 

“ Don’t make use of your boatswain’s quotations,” interposed the 
Admiral 

“Allow me to observe, in the most delicate manner in the world,” 
repeated Mr. Leslie, coolly, “that although, according to your 
somewhat surprising ideas. Captain Vincent may only rank with 
a junior lieutenant in the navy, he is, in addition, our county mem- 
ber — a member of great influence in the House, and a man of great 
wealth and good family. And although I do not mean to in- 
sinuate for one moment that these advantages collectively are to be 
compared with the honor of being an Admiral in the British 
Navy” — he spoke these words very slowly — “still I think he has 
some claim to ask a personal favor if he chooses. ” 

''My surprising ideas!” said the Admiral, in wrath, and losing 
most of the remainder of the speech in his indignation at this sen- 
tence; “they are the Queen's ideas, the Nation's ideas. Where would 
you be now without the navy?” 

‘ ‘ Probably where I am now ; and I don’t in the least care if I 
wasn’t. I don’t And it so remarkably pleasant as all that ” — and 
Mr Leslie went away. 

But though the Admiral was not impressed, the other members of 
the meeting were; they broke up with the resolution that they would 
do as Captain Vincent had requested, and defer their appeal to the 
bishop. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
estrangement. 

Ethel Hatton was suffering greatly. In going over their last 
interview she could not see that she had acted otherwise than right- 
ly; for how could she keep up the same respect for Mr. Manley; 
but, at the same time, her love seemed to her greater than ever. She 
regretted every cold word and tone she had ever given him, and 


THE BACHELOE VICAR OP NEWPORTH. 


103 


would gladly have recalled them. She thought of his face, his ex- 
pression, his unvarying kindness and tenderness to her, and her 
heart ached. Once or twice she made up her mind that she could 
not bear it, that she must ask him to overlook what had taken place, 
and she on her part would do the same; and she would certainly 
have done it hut for the conviction deep down in her heart that he 
would not overlook it, that he would not again receive her. To 
remain in Newforth was dreadful to her. She longed, and yet 
feared, to meet him. She could not go to church in comfort, she 
could not walk out. So she arranged a visit to some relations at a 
distance, and went away. 

The Vicar observed that the week-day congregations were per- 
ceptibly lessening. But this was not owing to his loss of influence, 
had he only known it, but because the ladies, meeting on the road 
to church, began to quarrel so vigorously as to the rights of the 
case that very often they would turn away at the very church- 
doors, not feeling themselves in a fit frame of mind to enter. 

But by degrees he could not fail to see that the poison was slow- 
ly working; one looked another way when he passed, and another 
cut him dead; and a third was cold and reserved, till at last the 
only houses where he received the same cordial welcome as of old 
were those of Mr. Yorke and Mr. Leslie. He went about with a 
heavy heart, but he neglected no duty in consequence, although he 
perceived that in the poorer districts his good influence was entire- 
ly gone. At last one day when rebuking a man — with the same 
gentleness which it was ever his wont to display when rebuke was 
required — for living in open immorality, he was received with a 
jeer and told that “the pot need not call the kettle black.” 

An impulse of anger, such as had not overcome him for years, 
caused the Vicar to put out his strong right hand to knock the man 
down, but he withdrew it instantly to his side, saying, quietly, “You 
are mistaken, my man; you will know better one day.” 

But after this he knew that the time had arrived for him to go. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

MR. MANLEY RESIGNS. 

The Vicar’s decision to resign was communicated to a meeting 
called for the purpose of hearing it by Mr. Leslie. 

“We don’t want to be so ’ard on him as that,” said the mayor; 
“ let him exchange.” 

“ If he isn’t fit for us, why should he be fit for another parish?” 
retorted Mr. Leslie. “ Between you all you will drive him out of 
England.” 

“We don’t wish that,” said Admiral Hatton, whose anger had con- 
siderably cooled. 

Mr. Yorke was present. 


104 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


“ I am a witness against you,” he said, gravely, “ that you have 
done as unfortunate a deed for yourselves in driving away your Vicar 
as it was in your power to do. The day will come when you will 
regret it. Has he not been as your best friend to every one of you?” 

“You needn’t rush at us so, Mr. Yorke,” said the mayor, uncom- 
fortably— though Yorke’s somewhat stately speech was the very re- 
verse of “ rushing.” “ Perhaps we 'ave been a little ’asty. Well, if 
so, we can call him back.” 

“ Do you suppose that such a man as Mr. Manley would come at 
your recall?” said Yorke, with some scorn in his voice. 

The matter had been fully discussed between him and the Vicar. 

“You are right, Phil; you must go,” said his friend, with deep re- 
gret; “ but don’t be too proud to exchange with some one else.” 

“I will not go into any parish with a slur on my name,” returned 
the Vicar. 

Now Yorke was well aware that his friend had no private means, 
and had lived fully up to his income. 

“ I do hope you are not going to take pupils, Phil,” he said. 

“ Certainly not. I purpose devoting myself to mission work 
abroad, in which I have always taken the greatest interest.” 

“Missions! become a missionary?” said Yorke, much concerned. 
“ Oh, don’t do that, Phil. A man of your culture and attainments 
would be quite thrown away on savages.” 

“ I do not know that mission work is of lucessity among savages; 
but I am of opinion that, inasmuch as they are in some respects like 
children, a cultivated man is by no means thrown away among them. 
It requires, I believe, a cultivated man to teach children.” 

“ They are not like children,” said Yorke, warmly. “ Take our 
Australian aborigines, for example— dirty, degraded wretches, almost 
incapable of civilization.” 

But this speech had a totally different effect to that intended by 
Mr. Yorke. The Vicar’s heart was so full of love to his fellow-men 
— for the sake of a higher love — that immediately he felt a strange 
pity towards those poor creatures in Australia. 

“ 1 will put myself in connection with the Church Missionary So- 
ciety,” he said. “ I might as well go to Australia as anywhere else.” 

Long and earnestly did Yorke try to dissuade him, but to no pur- 
pose. It was a case of “ when Greek meets Greek.” 

“You will do no good whatever,” said^ Yorke; “ I have seen plen- 
ty of them, and I know what I am talking about.” 

“ I can but try.” 

Indeed, this was about the worst argument that Mr. Yorke could 
have used— the mere mention of a difficulty made the Vicar anxious 
to overcome it. He now entered into the project with ardor. 

“There is only one advantage that I see in this mad scheme,” 
said Yorke, at length. 

“ What is that?” 

“ That you can go out with us,” for the Yorkes were on the eve of 
returning to Australia; “and when your mission work is proved 
hopeless — which I know it will be — you can stay with us for an in- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


105 


definite period (Australians always keep open house), until these 
wiseacres of Newforth have seen their error, and you can return in 
triumph to another parish. In one way I am very glad you are going 
to leave England for a time.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Oh, nothing; only an idea;” returned Yorke, vaguely. 

About this time a distant relative of the Vicar’s died, leaving him 
a most unexpected and, as he termed it, providential, legacy of £400. 
Never was money more welcome. The income he would receive, if 
any, from the Church Missionary Society would, he knew, be barely 
sufficient to cover his actual wants ; he could now take his own pas- 
sage — which he purposed doing in the mail with the Yorkes — and be 
his own master, as far as funds were concerned. The loss of his in- 
come troubled him but little, but the loss of his church — his dearly 
loved church — and of his reputation, troubled him greatly. Had it 
not been for the missionary ardor which had now taken possession of 
him, he felt as if he could not have borne up so bravely. For he 
bore up very bravely. 

A partial reaction had set in in his favor, harder to bear than the 
former illTwill; for it went no further than this: “As he is going 
away, let us make the best of it while he is here;” and he knew that 
they would be glad when he was gone. The living was to be given 
to Mr. Rowen, through the intervention of the bishop, who knew Mr. 
Manley well, and was not without secret hopes that matters might 
yet be cleared up, and that he would one day return. But even to his 
bishop Mr. Manley had entered into no explanation. He was anxious 
to leave without delay and join the Yorkes in London, whither they 
liad now gone, knowing that procrastination was bad for all parties 
concerned. His arrangements were quickly made^ and he prepared 
to leave Newforth — for good. 


CHAPTER XXVm. 

niS FAREWELL. 

It was on a Saturday that the Vicar prepared to pay his farewell 
visits — few enough, alas! in number. On Sunday evening he was to 
preach his farewell sermon, and leave Newforth early on Monday 
morning. 

He first called on Mrs. Leslie, whose very distress at his departure 
caused her to assume a coldness she was far from feeling; but Mr. 
jVIanley was a man who saw below the surface. He shook both her 
hands heartily, and thanked her for all the kindness he had received 
from both her and her husband ; and then he asked for her children, 
and kissed them affectionately, giving them each some toy. 

“ Come back soon, Mr. Manley,” said little Isabel; but how could 
he say he would do so? 

On leaving Mrs. Leslie’s, he met Mrs. Hatton. He stopped. 


106 


THE BACHELOE VICAE OF NEWFOETH. 


“Will you sliake hands with me before I go, Mrs. Hatton?” he 
asked, with his old, pleasant smile on his face. 

“ Of course I will,” she replied. 

“lam very glad to have met you. I could not call to say good- 
bye, after the Admiral forbidding me your house. But will you tell ~ 
him from me that I trust he will one day see matters in a different 
light; and give him my kind regards, if he will accept them. Also ” 
—after a pause— “ to Miss Hatton, and ”— a longer pause— “ and to 
Ethel.” 

“I am sure it is very good of you,” said Mrs. Hatton; “ and why 
every one has been made so wretched, and why you could not have 
stayed and married Ethel, I’m sure I don’t know. Well, good-bye, 
my dear, and I hope you’ll be happy.” 

At the entrance to the town he met Captain and Mrs. Vincent. 

“ If there ever was a henpecked husband in this world it is I,” 
Captain Vincent had been saying to his wife, knowing that he could 
well afford to jest on this point. “ Here am I dragged no end of a 
distance to say good-bye to a man I don’t care a straw about. ” 

“ How do you do, Mr. Manley?” he said, graciously, as the Vicar 
approached. “We are glad to have met you.” 

“We came over on purpose,” said Mrs. Vincent, “and we wish 
you every happiness in the new life to which you are going, and we 
are very sorry to lose you.” 

“The town will always remember you with gratitude,” he re- 
turned, “ when the peal of bells is heard.” 

“ The town wouldn’t have had them but for you'’ she replied; “I 
wish you had remained to hear them.” 

“I wish I could,” he returned, gravely, and bade them farewell. 

His poorer neighbors he had already visited, and now, out of all 
this large town of Newforth, there was no other house at which he 
purposed calling. He looked up at the spire in passing; the build- 
ing was going on as fast as possible, and then it did seem hard that 
he who had been the sole originator, the prime mover in the business, 
should not be allowed to remain to see its completion. 

It was now time to prepare his sermon. He shut himself in his 
study, and began to think. It is needless to say that during the en- 
tire week many of all his best thoughts had been given towards that 
seiTuon; but now these seemed to leave him, and a strange and un- 
usual bitterness came over him. He thought of the parish as it had 
been on his arrival, and of what it was now. He thought of the 
inany good works he had originated and carried on, of how his en- 
tire heart and thoughts and time and energies had been directed to 
his work. And this was his reward — to be, in effect, turned out by 
those whom he had benefited so greatly ! But no sooner had these 
ideas passed through his mind than he remembered the Apostle Paul 
— thought of all his zeal and persecutions and martyrdom ; and after 
thinking thus, he exclaimed, in deep humility, “ Vhat am / beside 
such a man as he?” It was in this frame that he composed his 
sermon, which, though to be principally extemporaneous, was well 
thought out. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


107 


He chose for his text the words of the same apostle: “And now, 
behold, I know that ye all, among whom I have gone preaching the 
kingdom of God, shall see my face no more.” But it was not of 
himself — his own works, his own wrongs, his own departure — that 
he spoke. He spoke of St. Paul, and how gigantic was the work he 
did, compared to that of the present ministers of the Church, and how 
they might well feel humble beside him; but his congregation ap- 
plied the parallel differently, and, erring as they thought him, were 
still visibly moved. Then, in one sentence only, he bade them fare- 
well, with a perceptible tremor in his voice; for he had loved his peo- 
ple greatly. 

In the last pew in the church sat Ethel, who had returned the 
night before. She sobbed silently during the entire sermon. He 
would be gone on the morrow, and she— she whom he had loved be- 
fore all the world — would be the only one who was not permitted to 
wish him farewell. 

“ I must see him, Gertrude,” she said. “ I will go to the vicarage 
sooner than not do so.” 

“ You shall not go,” said Miss Hatton. “ If you have any real af- 
fection left for him — and he deserves far more than you ever gave 
him — you will sacrifice your own wishes, and not add to his pain, 
when he must be feeling so much. Besides, what could you say if 
you did see him? You have no faith in him, and you can’t ask him 
to marry you. I don’t see what you could say.” 

But Ethel’s sobs at last made her sister relent. 

“ I tell you what,” she said, “ if he has any remnant of liking left 
for you at all, though I dare say he hasn’t, he won’t go without hav- 
ing a last look at our house. I will watch for him this evening — I 
want to say good-bye to him myself, and you can take a look at him ; 
but, remember, you are not to speak.” 

With this poor comfort Ethel was forced to be content. The 
evening was cold and. dark; the two girls put on thick shawls, and 
walked up and down the garden walk which skirted the lane. 

On leaving the church the Vicar — Vicar for the last time, he 
thought — had paced up and down his garden, lost in thought. And 
then, the memory of his love coming strongly over him, he thought 
he could not leave the place without looking once niore at the house 
where he had known so much happiness. It was quite dark— no one 
would see him; but the Misses Hatton heard his well-known foot- 
steps. 

“ Kneel down by the hedge; quick, Ethel, out of sight,” whispered 
her sister. You sha'nH speak to him to make him more wretched. 
Do you hear what I say?” 

Ethel obeyed. 

“Mr. Manley,” exclaimed Miss Hatton, “ come here and say good- 
bye to me over the hedge. ” 

“ Good-bye, Miss Hatton,” he said, gravely. “ I shall always re- 
member you with the deepest gratitude, and I trust you may meet 
with the happy future you deserve.” 

He shook hands warmly, but, ere he could go, two hands— two 


108 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


soft, small hands, the touch of which he knew well — caught hold of 
his right hand, and he felt a kiss imprinted, while it became wet 
with tears. He could not trust himself to speak; he turned away 
suddenly, and walked down the lane. But before he had reached 
the end he placed his hand on his face, its back to his cheek, and 
kissed the tear-drop that touched his lips. 

“The last of my weakness,” he said ; and he would fain have 
been spared this additional pain. 

Then he went into the church — the dark, quiet, solemn church — 
across which a faint ray of moonlight was struggling, and there he 
remained one hour. The moonlight was on the shipping and the 
harbor when he went up to his room. 

“I have bidden farewell to Newforth now,” he said. 

Mr. Leslie and Mr. Rowen saw him off the next morning, the lat- 
ter under the impression that he had done his duty to his Vicar like 
a man. But he would now himself be “the Vicar,” and it would 
scarcely have been in human nature if he had not held his head a 
little higher in consequence. 

Mr. Manley kept up cheerfully to the last, saying, as he grasped 
Mr. Leslie’s hand, “ I dare say you will say of me, ‘ We could have 
better spared a better man.’ I know that I shall not be forgotten 
by you, so you know you will not be forgotten by me. ” 

“ I shall say nothing of the kind,” returned Mr. Leslie, “because 
there is no better man to be found in the three kingdoms.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

AUSTRALIAN LIFE. 

It was not imtil they were fairly on their voyage that Yorke 
breathed freely. 

“I lived in dread, Phil, lest you should be had up for conspir- 
ing to defeat the ends of justice,” he said. 

“ That idea never once occurred to me,” said Mr. Manley. 

“I am very glad I did not suggest it; I assure you it was con- 
stantly on my mind.” 

“Ah, Yorke, you are a true friend!” returned Mr. Manley, warmly. 
“ One half of one’s friends add vastly to one’s troubles by suggest- 
ing evils. Are you sure I was in danger of this?” 

“Not quite sure, but very nearly.” 

Mr. Manley paced up and down the deck thoughtfully; he was 
thankful he had not known of this additional fear. He was very 
grave, very thoughtful now, though that courtesy which had ever 
been so prominently displayed by him was not given up. Many of 
the passengers would have been glad to make friends with him, but 
he did not care to make friends. 

Their destination was Adelaide, from which city Yorke’s station 
was distant some three hundred miles. Mr. Manley purposed ac- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


109 


companying liim and his wife and child thither, and remaining un- 
til all arrangements for going towards the interior had been made. 
He had received all necessary information and directions from tlie 
Church Missionary Society, and was to advance a considerable dis- 
tance up the country, in company with a Scripture-reader, who un- 
derstood something of the natives, and another helper. 

Tlie station life pleased Mr. Manley greatly. Yorke was very 
w^ell off, and lived in good style in the bush. His house was large, 
and most hospitably kept; his horses were good and numerous; his 
gardens were in perfection. The show of hothouse flowers, grow- 
ing, almost untended, in bushes in the open air, surprised Mr. Man- 
ley; he admired them greatly. But it was in vain that both Mr. and 
Mrs. Yorke would have had him prolong his stay when once he had 
heard he could proceed. 

“It is work that I want,” he said; “really hard work.” 

“You will have it in plenty,” said Yorke to himself, dismally; 
“ hard work, and depressing work, and fruitless work, and disgust- 
ing work!” for Yorke was not a missionary sympathizer. 

However, Mr. Manley departed, nothing daunted, carrying with 
him a brave heart and unbounded energy. There was a tribe — a 
peaceful tribe enough — among whom no work had as yet been done ; 
they were too far off. To them Mr. Manley and his helpers were to 
go. The nearest settlement or town to them would be Camper- 
town ; by a stream thirty miles beyond they pitched their tent, and 
soon managed to erect a couple of rude huts, with the assistance of 
their nearest neighbors. 

Mr. Manley was prepared to undergo any hardships; he had count- 
ed the cost fully before leaving England, and knew it would be con- 
siderable, but not for a moment did he flinch. 

The blacks, certainly, impressed him most unfavorably; their hab- 
its were so disgusting, their minds so dense 1 But Mr. Manley’s idea 
was to teach the children more especially, and to train them to bet- 
ter things. With them his influence was great; they would run to 
him, their fathers and mothers looking on in stolid indifference, 
squatting about in groups on their blankets and smoking. He en- 
deavored to teach by example rather than precept, and would often 
perform small kindnesses and bestow small gifts on them. 

His coadjutors he liked fairly well; they were well-meaning men, 
though no companions, in the best sense of the word. They pre- 
pared the untempting meals, for which they at times procured sup- 
plies from Campertown, and taught one or two of the native women 
to help them in cooking. 

The natives evidently looked on them with a friendly but most 
indifferent eye. It occurred to Mr. Manley that, as there was no 
translation of any portion of the Bible in their tongue— their dialect 
considerably differing from that of most of the tribes— he would 
endeavor to translate St. John into their heathenish phrase; but the 
labor was enormous, for their sounds were barely articulate. He 
w'ould not give in, however; he worked on bravely, smiling with 
the same pleasantness at the children, and trying his hardest to re- 


110 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Strain the disgust which sometimes would arise within him. Letters 
from England reached him ; some from Mr. Leslie, at Newforth, 
telling him how the spire was now finished, and the peal of bells had 
been rung. He did not answer them; he was not anxious to con- 
tinue any connection with his old life — the life when he had been the 
honored, beloved Vicar of Newforth. What was he now? But he 
said himself that he was now more fully honored, inasmuch its he 
was counted worthy to suffer. His cheeks were growing very hol- 
low, but his words were cheery and bright. Trouble he never spared 
himself, nor fatigue nor toil, when it could benefit others; his life 
Avas purely unselfish. He seemed to disregard all discomfort — 
which, to a gently-born English gentleman, must have been very 
great — and to think only of his work. 

Yorke had proposed taking a journey to see him, though it was a 
very long distance, but for this he was not anxious ; he knew it would 
unsettle him. Then there arrived a day when his two helpers came 
to him and said that, from most unmistakable signs, they were of 
opinion that an unfriendly influence was beginning to work among 
the tribe, and they considered it was no longer safe to live among 
them. They wished to return to regions more civilized. But to 
Mr. Manley this seemed like putting his hand to the plough and 
drawing back. They might go, he said, but he should remain. He 
still had hopes he was doing good. 

“You cannot remain alone,” they said; but he was firm that he 
would not go. 

So, with manifest reluctance, they departed; and when he had 
seen the last of them his heart seemed to sink within him, but only 
temporarily. His courage returned, his will remained indomitable ; 
henceforth he would labor alone. And so this advanced Christian, 
this accomplished and intellectual man, this cultivated and finished 
gentleman, was left alone in the midst of black, heathen savages. 


CHAPTER XXX. 
aiR. roaven’s troubles. 

Matters had not improved in Newforth. The new Vicar was 
totally incapable to hold the reins of government with the firm hand 
Avhich had characterized the dealings of Mr. Manley. In this world 
there is nothing so hardly visited as weakness. Mr. RoAven lived in 
fear and trembling. 

To begin Avith, his lady helpers tormented him out of his very 
life. Whereas Mr. Manley would have had his own way, without 
a dissentient voice, Mr. Rowen, in trying to adopt every one’s "way, 
Avas in the position of the old man Avith the ass. In trying to please 
every one he pleased no one. He began to dislike the very sound 
of his late Vicar’s name. It Avas always, “We can’t do that, Mr. 
Rowen; Mr. Manley never asked us;” or, “What a much better 


TUE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Ill 


system there was in Mr. Manley’s time.” So often, indeed, were 
speeches of this kind made, that at last ]\Ir. Rowen was goaded into 
retorting it was a great pity that they had driven so much perfection 
as Mr. Manley away. 

“ Yes, it is,” returned Miss Hatton; “and we have only regretted 
it once, and that is ahoays. ” 

Now, the only lady for whom the new Vicar had the smallest lik- 
ing was Miss Hatton, who snubbed him unmercifully. He was ter- 
ribly afraid of her, but he admired her. The attentions with which 
Mr. Manley was persecuted were not extended to him ; the girls 
laughed at his tall, ungainly figure, his awkward gait, and his hes- 
itating manner. 

He had thought it would be a delightful post to be a vicar, but, lo! 
his path was full of thorns. Even the verger did not hesitate to dic- 
tate to him openly; and the cook — for Mrs. Jonson had remained at 
the vicarage— did not scruple to inform him that he could not have 
as good a dinner as he wished (he being far more particular as to his 
creature comforts than Mr. Manley), or she would have nothing to 
give to the poor. 

He once exclaimed, under his breath, “Bother the poor!” but this 
fact is only mentioned in the strictest confidence. 

He waS' imposed on by the working classes right and left now that 
Mr. Manley was not there to discriminate betweeh the claims of the 
really needy and impostors, and at last he learned lo believe that all 
the poor were impostors, having been victimized so often. He al- 
ways buttoned up his coat when he saw a poor woman approaching, 
yet, at the same time, was done with the greatest ease. Miss Hatton 
one day, on witnessing a proceeding of the kind, could barely re- 
strain herself from calling him a fool. 

“ I tell you what it is, Mr. Rowen,” she said, decidedly, “if you 
are not firmer you will be got hold of and married by some widow 
before you know what you are doing, and what will become of you 
then?” 

“ I should become a married man,” returned the Vicar, with a fee- 
ble attempt at a joke, and blushing scarlet. 

“ You had better let me manage the district meetings for you,” she 
replied. “You are talked down, and no one listens to you.” 

“Oh, if you •would!” said the poor Vicar, gratefully; “and if— if 
there is any real need for me, I can be sent for.” 

“But you must visit; be sure you visit. I will make out the list 
of the houses you are to go to.” 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Rowen, meekly. 

In the solitude of his study he exclaimed, “ I shall be driven fran- 
tic by these women; it’s awful. One tells me to do one thing, and 
another another. I wish, with all my heart, that Manley was here 
to deal with them.” 

So, by degrees, his power went from him, as far as the richer class- 
es were concerned. The church-wardens both bullied him in their 
different ways, Mr. Leslie having taken up the totally indefensible 
position that any vicar coming after Mr. Manley must be an intruder; 


112 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


and Admiral Hatton being rendered suspicious by his recent experi- 
ence. 

The organist chose the hymns without even consulting the Vicar, 
and, when mildly remonstrated with, replied that, in Mr. Manley’s 
time, there had been no fault found ; knowing, as he spoke, that he 
would not, in Mr. Manley’s time, have ventured to choose the hymns. 

Mr Rowen liked congregational singing; the choir preferred an- 
thems and most elaborate and highflown chants, in which none of 
the congregation could join, and have them they would, and did. 
They said they would resign in a body otherwise, and Mr. Rowen 
was afraid to tell them they were welcome to do so. 

The difficulty of reconciling his cross-grained affairs of every-day 
life with the elaborate, elevated language in which he had been wont 
to indulge caused his sermons to become more obscure, and he far 
oftener told his congregation that they “all knew what he meant.” 

The communicants began to fall off in number, the offertories 
became smaller. That earnest zeal in the former Vicar which had 
been at the root of the people’s zeal was now wanting. Mr. Rowen 
began to complain, and scold the congregation in his sermons. Th« 
falling off became more apparent. 

“We never had one word of complaint from Mr. Manley during 
the whole time he was with us,” they said. 

“Ah!” returned Mr. Leslie, triumphantly, “you are now begin- 
ning to find out what you have lost.” 

He had received one letter, and one only, from Mr. Manley, writ- 
ten when he first landed at Adelaide. But part of this letter was 
quite incomprehensible to Mr. Leslie — a part in which Mr. Manley 
stated that, although he had never said as much in actual words, he 
deeply regretted the losses Mr. Leslie had sustained, how personally 
responsible in a measure he felt, and how grieved he had been. 

“Perhaps he has had a sunstroke,” said Mr. Leslie, reflectively, 
“and it has affected his brain. How in the world can he have any- 
thing to do with our losses ?” 

“ Ah, Frank!” said Mrs. Leslie, “ we shall never have such a vicar 
again.” 

“You think a vast deal of him, young woman!” 

“You may be quite sure, Frank,” returned Mrs. Leslie, laughing, 
“that I should not praise him so openly if there was any harm in 
it. A woman of my age — ” 

“You are not quite a Methuselah, my dear.” 

“ With two children — ” 

“ And an attached husband,” he again interrupted. 

“ And an attached husband, can say anything she pleases, I should 
think.” 

“ Certainly, so long as she adds that she is attached to her hus- 
band.” 

“I’ll say it now, Frank,” she said, with a laugh; “and who is 
also attached to her husband. Will that satisfy you?” 

“Perfectly,” said Mr. Leslie, who, his wife knew, had been only 
joking. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


113 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE ADMIRALTY BALL. 

The Devastation had come to Seafort, also Captain Worsley, who 
had brought his ship round from Plymouth. The Lords of the Ad- 
miralty were coming to inspect, and the admiralty ball was to take 
place. 

Mr. Campbell had again been taken into favor. Miss Hatton’s 
conscience had somewhat accused her for the series of snubs she 
had administered to him for so long a time past, and she now made 
herself very agreeable. 

That Mrs. Hatton and the girls were to go to the admiralty ball 
was a matter of course. Ethel had declared her intention of stay- 
ing away — ^he had no heart for balls now; but her father contested 
the point so hotly that she gave way. He was not going himself; 
he was too old for balls, he said; but, in reality, being on half-pay, 
he was not over-anxious to meet the admirals in command. 

Captain Worsley had come over to dine previous to the ball — in 
uniform, of course, as the Lords of the Admiralty were to be pres- 
ent. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if he were to propose to you to-night, Ger- 
trude,” said Ethel, as the two girls were dressing; “he does noth- 
ing but follow you with his eyes.” 

“I hope he won’t to-night,” returned Miss Hatton, “ because Mr. 
Campbell will be there, and it is so horridly awkward sometimes to 
have two such— strings to your bow.” 

“ Shall you accept him?” 

“ I really can’t say,” replied Miss Hatton, who was looking brill- 
iantly handsome in her white satin dress. “You look very nice,” 
she said to Ethel; “very nice indeed; but as you are going, do look 
as if you enjoyed it.” 

“ I never enjoy anything now,” said Ethel, in a low voice. 

“That’s not half so much consequence if you looTc cheerful. 
Why, gracious me ! if all the people who are miserable were to look 
miserable, we should scarcely ever see a cheerful face. Every one 
has trouble of some sort or another.” 

Captain Worsley had secured Miss Hatton for three dances before 
they started. 

“No,” she said, firmly; “ I won’t promise you more.” 

“There is always such a run on you,” p'umbled that young man; 
“ however, it is awfully good of you to give me these.” 

Mr. Campbell had dined on shore at Seafort with a party of brother 
officers. Of late his hopes with regard to Miss Ifatton had consid- 

S 


114 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


erably revived; and now that Captain Worsley had again appeared 
on the scene, he thought it quite time to come forward, having made 
up his mind that he would be tolerably certain of being accepted. 
The dinner was of a somewhat convivial nature, many of the offi- 
cers not having met one another for some time past. Mr. Campbell 
did full justice to the fare, and more than justice to the wine. 

“ Have a care, Campbell,” whispered his neighbor, as he saw the 
young man again replenish his glass ; ‘ ‘ official ball, and all that sort 
of thing, don’t you know?” 

All right,” returned Mr. Campbell, “ I’ll be as sober as a lord.” 

“ I thought it was as drunk as a lord,” said his friend. 

But while the dessert was on the table Mr. Campbell brought for- 
ward Miss Hatton’s name in a manner he certainly would not have 
done had he been quite himself. 

“ I say she’s the best girl, and the prettiest girl, and the j oiliest 
girl in the kingdom, let any one deny it if he dares 1” he asseverated. 

No one apparently wished to deny it, but several amused and one 
or two anxious glances were given him by the company, who were 
all young men of admirable character. 

“ I’ll bet you a sovereign,” said one, “that she won’t have you if 
you ask her.” 

“Hone!” returned Mr. Campbell, promptly; “and I’ll give you 
two to one all round the table, if you like.” 

“ Done!” they all replied, and booked the bet. 

“ I will ask her to-night,” he continued. 

“We won’t hold you to a day or two, old fellow,” said one; 
“ within a week will do.” 

On their way to the ball a quiet word passed round among them- 
selves. 

“He’s right enough noio,'' said one afterwards; and continued, 
turning to Mr. Campbell, “I say, you had better not go in for too 
much champagne to-night, or perhaps you will lose your bet. ” 

“ So much the better for you,” returned Mr. Campbell. 

It was greatly to Miss Hatton’s surprise that at the ball she beheld 
Mr. Kowen, for it was not his custom to attend balls. He did not 
dance, but sat down and watched her, enduring grinding torments. 
He was now so much in love that he literally could not keep away, 
his ardor having vastly increased since Miss Hatton had relieved 
him of so much of the management of parish affairs, and he knew 
that he would be kept in countenance to-night by the dockyard 
chaplain. But not a word did he say to that gentleman; he sat in 
a corner and fixed his eyes on his charmer. 

Mr. Campbell and the officers with whom he had dined were pres- 
ent when she arrived. Before Mr. Campbell could say a word, she 
found herself besieged, and her card entirely filled. 

“ What dances are you going to give me?” he asked, when he 
could obtain a hearing. 

“ I’m really very sorry, but I haven’t one, unless I engage myself 
twice over. Well, perhaps I can do that; I will try and do so, any- 
how.” 


1 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


115 


lie departed very savage, and made his way to the refreshment- 
room. 

“I flatter myself we did that neatly,” said one of his friends; “if 
she had cared a button about him she would have reserved him a 
couple of dances,” 

Meantime Miss Hatton had taken pity on the Vicar. 

“ Aren’t you going to dance, Mr. Rowen?” she asked. 

“ I am not,” he answered, dismally. 

“Are you going to have any supper?” 

“If you will come too.” 

“I can’t now, but I will soon. Yes, I really will. Come for me 
in half an hour.” 

So when half an hour was over the Vicar discovered her on the 
point of waltzing. She turned from her partner at once. 

“ So sorry, but I am engaged to Mr. Rowen for this,” and, bowing 
slightly, took his arm. 

By some chance he procured her a seat in the corner of the sup- 
per-room, and when she had been duly refreshed, she had some 
grapes. Now, as every one knows, if you choose to be a whole day 
eating a bunch of grapes, you can; and Miss Hatton, knowing that 
her remaining dance with Captain Worsley would not come oil. for 
some time, was quite content to remain laughing and talking with 
Mr. Rowen. 

But he, poor man, had none of the ready ease of the man of the 
world displayed by the late Vicar. He could only talk on one sub- 
ject, and that was Church and Church affairs. He began to tell her 
of a purchase of cloth he had made for the working party from a 
poor, shipwreeked sailor, who had seeured this portion of goods 
from the wreck; it was a great bargain, he said, and would be most 
useful. 

She looked at him with mingled amusement and contempt. 

“ You make a bargain, Mr. Rowen! If you ever bet, I will bet 
you anything you please that the cloth is shoddy, and that you have 
been regularly done. Don’t you know that all that nonsense about 
shipwrecked sailors is one of the oldest of old tricks?” 

Mr. Rowen replied that he did not know it, that he had formerly 
lived in a country place. 

“If you would do what the Vicar used to tell us”— for, to Mr. 
Rowen’s disgust, she insisted on generally calling Mr. Manley “ the 
Vicar” — “you wouldn’t go out of your way to invent work, Mr. 
Rowen, but would do what lies nearest to your hand. It is my 
work to buy the material for the working party.” 

“You are always criticising me and my deeds,” he responded, 
meekly. “ Were you so severe a critic to Mr. Manley?” 

“ Of course not,” she responded, readily. “The first time I heard 
him preach I criticised, it having been my lot, unfortunately, to be 
thrown at one time with clergymen for whom I had no great re- 
spect; but after hearing Mr, Manley onee or twiee, I simply came to 
be taught, and accepted every word he said as given with the author- 
ity of the Church.” 


116 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ I, too, have the authority of the Church.” 

“So you have— sometimes,” she replied, promptly; “ but—you 
must really excuse my candor — your mantle of authority seems con- 
stantly to be slipping from you, while his never did. Wherever 
you saw him, you couldn’t forget he carried Church authority with 
him.” 

“You seem to take a rery warm interest in him. Miss Hatton; a 
most remarkable interest, I may say,” said Mr. Rowen, in an injured 
voice. 

“Do you mean, am I in love with him?” asked the young lady, 
frankly. 

“ That is my meaning.” 

“Then, no! I am not. Dear me, haven’t you even sufficient 
knowledge of human nature to be aware that, if I were in love with 
him, I should say nothing about him. Pray, do you talk of your 
deepest feelings — of your religious feelings, let us say? for if you 
do, you are the only person I know who does, except perhaps occa- 
sionally to a clergyman.” 

“ 1 have sufficient knowledge of human nature to know that you 
are extremely rude to me,” returned Mr. Rowen, now fairly brought 
to bay. 

She laughed. “Yes, I believe I am. Well, never mind. I am 
now ready to go back to the ball. ” 

Mr. Rowen went home at once, his evening having been, in his 
opinion, a marked failure. 

Ethel’s evening had been very wearisome to her. She had en- 
gaged herself for every dance, looking on it as an ordeal which must 
be gone through with; but in none of her partners did she take any 
interest. She could not remove her thoughts from the Australian 
wilds, where she imagined Mr. Manley was enduring every hard- 
ship. She pictured him in every way she could think of; but even 
she could not realize the dismal situation he was actually in. His 
voice and smile were ever present to her, his words 'constantly 
sounded in her ears. Had he failed in his duty? oh, if she could 
only know that he had not. These ideas were in her mind even 
while waltzing w'ith a young commander, who was paying her de- 
voted attention. 

At the close of the dance Mr. Campbell came up. 

“You are going to give me a dance now, I hope,” he said; “you 
promised me one.” 

She smiled. 

“Very well, I must disappoint Mr. Maguire; I don’t suppose he 
will mind much, and 1 do not care about him.” 

“All right,” returned Mr. Campbell, looking pleased. He ap- 
peared a very fine-looking young man to-night, his full dress uni- 
form set his figure off to the best advantage, and his face, though 
flushed, was certainly handsome, wdth its accompaniments of well- 
trimmed flaxen beard and mustache. 

“ There’s a sort of a balcony out here, or veranda place,” he said; 
“will you come?” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


117 


“Yes,” returned Ethel, readily; “it will he cool out there.” 

The veranda overlooked the sea — indeed, the ballroom was built 
almost on the beach. Mr. Campbell took her to the farther corner, 
apart from the other couples, and leaned over the railings, pressing 
her hand. 

“I say,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “this is very jolly, isn’t it? aw- 
fully jolly to be here alone with you.” 

Etliel laughed. 

“I really did not know I was such an attraction.’ 

“ Know it? you do know it,” he rejoined, fiercely. “ I have al- 
ways loved you, and I wish to marry you.” 

She withdrew her hand from his arm. 

“Mr. Campbell!” she exclaimed, in surprise, “ I assure you I never 
had the slightest idea of it; and after the very marked attention you 
have paid my sister, I do not feel at all fiattered.” 

“ My sister !” he repeated, scornfully ; “ I never so much as thought 
of your sister; it was always you.” 

“You disguised your feelings very effectually,” she returned, with 
some contempt, “ I never had the smallest notion that you cared for 
me.” 

“Will you have me? Say Yes. I don’t want to be a snob, but I 
have soihething to live on besides my beggarly pay, and you’ll find 
me a very tolerable fellow for a husband.” 

“I reject your offer most decidedly,” said Ethel; “and I am 
much astonished that you should have made it. I wish to return 
to the ballroom, if you please.” 

He took her back in sulky silence, and, returning to the veranda, 
watched the dancers in anger. 

Several of his brother officers from time to time passed him. One 
or two held out sovereigns towards him, and one exclaimed, ‘ ‘ IIo, 
ho! the pity of it!” which rendered him furious. 

“ I don’t think he has proposed to her,” said another. “ I haven’t 
seen him speak to her all the evening; she’s in a corner over there 
with Worsley, who is precious far gone also.” 

At two o’clock Mrs. Hatton and her daughters left. Gertrude was 
on the arm of Captain Worsley, Ethel on that of the naval chaplain 
of the Devastation. Mr. Campbell watched them gloomily, and, as 
they passed him on the way to the carriage, an awful suspicion 
dawned on him. He had proposed to the wrong girl ! 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

MR. CAMPBELL’S VISIT. 

It was, indeed, true. Mr. Campbell had proposed to Ethel in- 
stead of Gertrude. The wine which he had taken had muddled his 
brain, and he had been fully under the impression he was talking to 
Miss Hatton in the veranda. He went away not only furious, but 


118 


THE BACnELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTU. 


seriously concerned. What could he do? He was quite sure that, 
under the circumstances, Ethel would repeat every word to her sis- 
ter, and, with a girl like Gertrude, he feared his chance was now 
gone. It was precious awkward ; precious awkward ! But, not be- 
ing a young man who was easily daunted, he determined to go to 
Admiral Hatton’s house the next day and endeavor to make the best 
of it. 

Meantime Ethel had informed her sister of the unwarrantable pro- 
posal, and her sister was excessively angry. 

‘'I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “I’m sure he was in love 
with me. I can’t make it out. Have you been trying to cut me out 
with him, Ethel?” she asked, sharply. 

“ i cut you out; that is, try to cut you out? You know I haven’t.” 

“It’s a mystery to me,” said Miss Hatton, “ although I always did 
know that there isn’t an ounce of dependence to be placed in the 
generality of men! But this beats me!” And then she informed 
her sister that Captain Worsley had proposed to her at the ball, and 
that he was coming to see their father the next day; or, rather, seeing 
it was four o’clock in the morning, that day. 

“And I do hope there won’t be a row,” she said, “for father does 
take such ridiculous crotchets into his head sometimes.” 

Ethel wished her sister every happiness, and thought sadly of how 
her own prospects were blighted. 

She liked Captain Worsley, she said; but, comparing him in her 
own mind with Mr. Manley, she decided that the former was at a 
tremendous disadvantage. 

The interview with Admiral Hatton passed off satisfactorily on 
the whole. 

“I wish you to understand, young man,” he said, “that I won’t 
have any son-in-law who is ashamed of her majesty’s navy. Keep 
your hunters and welcome, if you can afford it, after your marriage, 
and wear your pink coat if you please ; but unless you put your title, 

‘ Commander Henry Worsley,’ on the cards you leave at private 
houses, you sha’n’t marry my daughter, that’s positive.” 

Captain Worsley laughed good-humoredly. 

“I have explained all my circumstances to you, sir, and am will- 
ing to settle money on your daughter; but as to what I put on my 
cards, that is my business — come, sir, be reasonable.” 

But the Admiral would not be reasonable, and declined his con- 
sent until Captain Worsley had promised to sign an agreement stat- 
ing that he would retain his title, and not be ashamed of the navy. 
The humor of the situation struck the young man so much that he 
consented. 

“ We’ll have it down in black and white,” said the Admiral, tak- 
ing up a pen, and jotting down the particulars on a piece of paper, 
which Captain Worsley signed, with a roar of laughter. 

He had barely left the house for Seafort when Mr. Campbell ap- 
peared. He was shown into the drawing-room, where IMrs. Hatton 
and the girls were sitting at work. He seemed somewhat ill at 
ease. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


119 


“Fine day, isn’t it?” he exclaimed, and sauntered over to the win- 
dow. 

“ What’s that new shrub you have across the lawn?” he asked. 

“There is nothing new,” said Mrs. Hatton. Neither Gertrude nor 
Ethel had as yet spoken. 

“If it isn’t new, I have never seen it before,” he returned, some- 
what crossly. “I wish you would show it to me, Miss Hatton.” 

She was on the point of declining, when an idea that she would 
like to give him a piece of her mind came across her. She rose 
and accompanied him across the lawn. 

“I say, Gertrude,” he said, hurriedly, “this is an awful business. 
I made a great fool of myself last night.” 

“I dare say you did,” she rejoined, carelessly; “but I prefer to be 
addressed as Miss Hatton by you.” 

“You know perfectly well that I am in love with you; that I have 
always been.” 

“I don’t particularly care to hear it,” she answered, sharply, 
“ seeing that you told Ethel the same story last night.” 

- “ I know I did,” he returned, pulling at the branches as he spoke; 
“that’s what I am come about now. I made an awful mistake last 
night: 1 thought she was you.” 

“Don’t tell me anything so ridiculous,” retorted Miss Hatton, 
“because' I don’t believe a word of it. You are not out of your 
mind, and you couldn’t have mistaken her for me; we are not in the 
least alike.” 

But I did” said Mr. Campbell, with great energy, “or I should 
never have asked her, I declare solemnly. I had been having a glass 
, of wine, you know. It is you I want to marry; it always was you.” 

“ I refuse you,” she returned, without a touch of pity in her voice; 
“refuse you absolutely and unconditionally.” 

The young man’s face clouded. 

“That is awfully hard lines,” he said. “Come, think better of 
it, Gertrude.” 

“Certainly not,” she replied; “the excuse you have given aggra- 
vates your offence. Do you suppose I am going to marry a man 
who drinks !” 

“ And there’ll be all those fellows to settle with, hang it!” he ex- 
claimed to himself. 

But Miss Hatton heard him. 

“ What fellows?” she asked, sharply. “ What do you mean?” 

“It was nothing, only a bet,” he answered, vaguely. 

But she resolved to be told, and at last extracted from him an un- 
willing explanation. 

“ Well!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, “if you were so far left 
to yourself as to make me the subject of a bet at a public dinner- 
table, and about such a matter too, it show’s me the sort of man you 
must be. If there were not another man in the world, I would not 
marry you now. More than this, I am engaged to Captain Worsley.” 

Mr. Campbell departed in a rage. That evening he sent two sov- 
ereigns apiece to his friends of the dinner-table, and, going up to 


120 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


town the next day, made interest to be appointed to one of the ships 
at Plymouth. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

MR. MANLEY’S EXPERIENCES. 

Mr. Manley was becoming shadowy, both in mind and body. 
The climate had told on him, but the mental strain to which he had 
been so long subject had done him far more harm. He continued 
his work bravely, although it was becoming a sore toil to him. He 
was conscious of a strong wish to lie down under sueh shade as 
could be found, instead of sitting at work at his translations, or do- 
ing his best to teaeh the children English words and phrases, or 
perform acts of kindness towards the men and women. But he 
would not give in, and — fearing lest self-indulgence should be at the 
root of this disinclination, and knowing that the manners and cus- 
toms of the natives were day by day becoming more loathsome to 
him, his work more irksome — he sternly apportioned to himself cer- 
tain hours for eaeh self-imposed duty; and no matter what his wea- 
riness, no matter what the heat, he fulfilled it, often to lie down at 
night too utterly prostrated to be capable even of thought. His ap- 
petite had failed. It was as much as he could do to touch any of 
the food they brought him; but, knowing that without sustenance 
he could not support his strength, he looked on this, too, as a duty, 
and forced himself to partake of the untempting meals given him. 

The keen, shrewd, clever, strong, practieal Vicar of Newforth had 
departed, and in his plaee there was a man whose mind was given 
to visions and flights of the imagination. Reealling sometimes the 
life he had lived — the crowded, over-busy life, in which he had 
barely had sufficient time for necessary thought, in which, from 
morning till night, some one or other had appealed to him for advice 
or help, or spiritual counsel, or sometimes merely on vain pretexts — 
he marvelled, and asked himself if it indeed were he. 

With these black men there was association, but no communion 
whatever; he lived as much alone as if, indeed, he had been quite 
solitar;^. He found himself constantly thinking of St. Paul, and en- 
tering into that apostle’s most ardent thoughts and most lofty con- 
ceptions. He was not sure, but it at length occurred to him that 
his influence among the tribe was even less than it had been for- 
merly. The children still came to him, but the men would walk 
carelessly away when he spoke. But not one whit of his exertions 
did he relax in consequence. And then this happened to him — his 
mind outran his body. Instead of sleeping at night, he found him- 
self, except at short and uncertain intervals, plunging into theories 
which he had learned in former years. With all the glorious stars 
of the southern hemisphere above his head, he would regard them, 
and lose himself in speculations as to the reality of the many vision- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


121 


ary ideas which from time to time had been put forward by scien- 
tific men. Then, when the moon rose in all her splendor, he would 
look at her, and apostrophize the theory of her deadness, and that 
of many of the starry host, as horrible. It seemed to him something 
awful that these dead worlds should be whirling through space, 
their light and glow and beauty unchangeable. He did not believe 
in the truth of it. And then he would find himself repeating snatch- 
es of Greek plays, and portions of the verse of the Latin poets. His 
accumulated stores of knowledge, much of which he had completely 
forgotten, had all returned to him ; he wondered to think of what he 
had once known. 

His brain refused him any rest. He compelled himself to concen- 
trate his attention in the daytime on what he was doing, giant etfort 
as it was; but, towards evening, the very greatness of his mental 
powers produced a corresponding loss of bodily strength to control 
them. “ If my brain would only rest,” he said sometimes; “if only 
for three or four hours. ” 

But this it would not do; his thoughts ran riot. Now he was 
with Ethel, in imagination; and, forgetting his bitterness against 
her, was looking in her sweet face, and repeating that ardent poetry 
she had so loved. He found himself saying aloud one night, 

' ' “ O love, love, love ! oh, withering might !” 

and then he had checked himself with a half-laugh, in which there 
was no mirth. But for the peace of God, which still possessed him, 
and the earnest desire to do his duty, he felt he could not have borne 
his life. 

He found himself dealing with the generalities of all the sciences, 
and— with those with which he was most intimately acquainted — 
going into the subtler niceties and more profound depths. The ge- 
ological theories of the present day, the geographical discoveries, 
the marvellous researches of chemistry — on all of which subjects he 
had read deeply — were to him now sources of actual distress. He 
could not dismiss their particulars from his mind. He had formerly 
given much time to metaphysics, and now all the problems of the 
Aristotelian treatises would not be forgotten. He worked them out 
ceaselessly; they gave him no peace. He recalled the lives of emi- 
nent men — of philosophers, poets, painters, musicians; he found that 
he could remember each detail that he had read concerning them. 
The ancient histories of the world, the modern histories, all came 
back to. him with bewildering distinctness. As he lay he would 
sometimes fancy he could hear the tramp of the armed hosts in the 
battles of the ancients. And then, at break of day, he would plunge 
his head into the stream, and return, to some degree refreshed, 
only, as the day wore on, to find himself again under the influence 
of his too active mind. He asked himself sometimes if his brain 
were diseased, but decided that it was not. 

So passed the days and weeks, his spirit strong and brave as ever 
not to succumb, but his health gradually failing. He wandered some 
little distance away one evening. He was absent some hours, and when 


122 


THE BACIIELOE VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


he returned he found smoke and charred timber and ruin : the blacks 
had burned his huts and had departed. And this was the result of 
his mission work ! But even then his courage did not fail him ; he 
looked up, and said, “ It is permitted by God;” and, lying down on 
the ground, slept— for the first time for many a long week— some 
hours of dreamless, unbroken sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

UNBELIEF. 

To remain in the bush under such circumstances would not only 
be absurd, it would be manifestl}’^ wrong. Therefore Mr. Manley 
determined to seek the nearest station without delay; it was thirty 
miles distant, but he could walk that, he thought, by taking rest 
constantly. He had a small supply of food — such food, alas! — and 
he could carry sufficient water slung in a large ffask on his back. 
His Bible he always carried in his pocket. With this, and this alone, 
he departed. 

He felt no regret as he turned his back on what had been his home 
for so many months ; he felt nothing. His period of mental suffer- 
ing had been too greatly prolonged; he could feel pain no longer. 
At this moment he doubted if any bad news would have affected 
him in the smallest degree. 

He journeyed but slowly; the ground was rough and uneven, the 
heat very great. He passed among groves of eucalypti and she-oaks, 
their sombre green foliage giving little shelter. At night he heard 
the shrill cry of a night-bird or two, otherwise there was profound 
stillness. He made sure he knew the right track, but when two 
days had passed, and he saw no sign of the station, he began to fear 
that he had missed his way. 

During all this time his brain had become still less under his con- 
trol, his physical weakness was becoming so great. The profound 
solitude removed all need for restraint, and he would burst forth 
into the solemn strains of Milton, or quote some of the fearful 
passages of Dante, without knowing why he did so. He would re- 
peat long passages from the Epistles, and once chanted aloud an en- 
tire chapter of the Song of Solomon. Yet, with it all, his mind was, 
in one way, as clear as it had ever been ; he appreciated to the full 
his own situation, and spoke to himself of his own danger. 

But when the third day was ended he lay down, and his heart for 
the first time failed him. He drank his last drop of water, and 
closed his eyes, exclaiming, with Elijah, “It is enough ; now, O 
Lord, take away my life.” But even as he said the words, they 
savored to him of cowardice. He arose, and taking out his Bible, 
began to read by the light of the moon. It opened at Ezekiel, and 
this was the verse that attracted his attention: “I saw in my vision 
by night, and behold, the four winds of the heavens strove upon the 


THE RACIIELOK VICAR OF NEWFOETII. 


123 


great sea.” His mind seemed to dwell on this; he closed his Bible 
and lay down again. The stars looked from their heights, and, as he 
contemplated them, he found himself again with his mind on as- 
tronomical theories. Could it be possible, he asked himself, if 
each tiny speck in remotest distances were itself a solar system 
of vast extent, that the Creator of such vast and illimitable space 
could look down on such a human being as himself? The faith 
in an actual personal presence of God had ever been his firmest 
belief; during his worst troubles this had never left him; in every- 
thing he had recognized the finger of God. But now a worse trouble 
befell him, for that consolation was no longer present. The majesty 
of the solar systems so oppressed him that his faith was well-nigh 
gone. “Such koowledge is too wonderful for me; I cannot attain 
unto it,” he said, in the bitterness of his heart. But the thought 
was agony to him. He knelt on the ground, and stretched out his 
hands in despair, exclaiming, with Max Piccolomini, 

“ ‘ Oh, that an angel would descend from heaven, 

And scoop for me the right, the uucorrnpted. 

With a pure hand from the pure font of light.’ ” 

He thought of his own life, and wondered if that were an entire 
failure; wljether his whole labor had not been thrown away. He 
thought of the agony endured, not by Christians only, but by 
people of all sects, of all nations— the hopeless agony ofttimes. He 
began to marvel how men could believe that one little portion of the 
great family of mankind could only be right; to question whether, 
if there were a Father at all, he was not equally Father to all; and 
then he remembered the prayers sometimes used in time of war — 
prayers that we might, in effect, mow down our fellow-creatures, 
equally children of the universal family — and he wondered that 
men could pray them. 

He thought of Jews, Mohammedans, Brahmins, Christians, all 
pressing forward in their efforts to worship the one God, blindly, it 
may be, but still earnestly; and he wondered if that God knew it. 
We could not believe that we alone, of all sections, would, in the long, 
far-off future, be the only saved; he could not but hope that some 
way might yet be found for all. 

And then the theory of the gradual absorption of the sea into the 
centre of the earth, and the gradual but slow and sure death of the 
world itself, came over him; and he asked himself. For what pur- 
pose was it made? 

He who had comforted the sorrowful, had given assurance to the 
doubting, had ministered to the sick, and been as the right hand of 
all in whose path he was thrown, was now sick and sorrowful and 
doubting himself, but there was none to uphold him. Still kneel- 
ing, he held up his arms, and said, 

“ ‘I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs. 

That slope through darkness up to God, 


124 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ ‘ 1 stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 

And gather dust and chaff, and call. 

To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope.’ ” 

The stars still shone in all their glory, and again he lay back beneath 
a eucalyptus, and looked at them. And then a lower depth opened 
to him, and the still more awful thought came into his mind, “Is 
there a God?” It was torture to him; he wrestled with it, he threw 
himself on his face, and clutched the very ground in his hands in 
his agony at this idea. But put it from him he could not. The 
past happiness he had always enjoyed, the evidences of prophecy, 
of faith, of his own soul— all went by him, as though they had never 
been. They had been, he knew; but grasp them he could not; to 
him now they were meaningless words. 

Wave after wave of unbelief swept over him. Every difficulty 
he had ever felt in Old Testament narrative, every doubt of any kind 
whatever, all came to him now, and swallowed him up. He asked 
himself whether there were a God, or heaven, or future life ; or 
whether tlie atheists were right, and he, and such as he, were of all 
men most miserable. 

Forgetting how in the former times he had so earnestly counselled 
others not to expect that any special miracle would be wrought in 
their case, he cried aloud, “If there be a God, manifest thyself.” 
But there was neither voice nor answer, and the same awful silence 
reigned. And then his physical system would bear nothing further; 
he lay down again, motionless, to die, with the awful thought deep 
down in his heart, “There is no God!” He began to fancy he was 
dead already. A voice in his mind, not his own, seemed repeating, 

“ O me ! why have they not buried me deep enough ? 

Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough — 

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper f 
Mayl)e still I am but half-dead, 

Then I cannot be wholly dumb. 

I will cry to the steps above my head, 

And somebody, surely some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper.” 

Then he lay in a trance, and this was the vision he beheld as he 
lay. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

nis VISION. 

He seemed to stand on the sea-shore— a wild, barren, and desolate 
shore; the clouds hung black and low; the sun was blood-red and 
misty; the wind moaned and sighed; the waves, dull and leaden- 
colored, broke heavily on the strand. Suddenly up rushed the north 
wind, howling and raving ; snow" fell in showers ; the waves in- 
creased, till they lashed in fury on the shore. The wind took him, 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


125 


and bore him out to sea, he thought, to the midst of the mighty 
ocean. The south wind appeared ; it fought and wrestled with the 
north. The waves rose in huge billows; the noise was deafening. 
Thunder crashed and lightning shone, when up came the east and 
west winds. The battle of the elements had begun. 

It was an awful scene of wildest chaos, and he was in the midst 
of it all. At one moment borne down to the lowest depths of the 
ocean; at another, high upraised in the sky; then whirled around 
by those tremendous forces. He felt no fear; he gloried in it. The 
sense of life, of power, of danger, of excitement, was fearful in its 
intensity; but he rejoiced in it, although he knew that the whole 
earth was shaken, and the end of all things was at hand. The 
tumult, the roar and rage went on — it might have been for days, it 
might have been for ages — when suddenly, in a moment, all was 
still. 

The sky, no longer leaden, but brightly blue, opened above him ; 
he was borne upwards and upwards, up and still up, to golden lights 
and starry firmaments. He knew that eternity had begun. But 
what was it? Was it that deadening, dulling sound of never-end- 
ing, never-varying singing? Oh, no, it was not that. It was some- 
thing altogether marvellous, altogether beautiful. He passed through 
cycles of years, from one starry system to another, ever glorying in 
the marvels that surrounded him; never wearying of the gorgeous 
beauty, the unceasing development of knowledge, the explanation of 
all mysteries, even to that painful problem of the world — our world. 

He found an answer to the great question of “ Why?” Why the 
sorrow, the suffering, the care, the sin; he saw it all then — why per- 
mitted, why sent. Every good action, every pure thought, every 
kind word, lived and lived again; good triumphed, evil had van- 
ished. Pain had gone, and with it all tears and sorrow and crying. 

He thought Ethel was with him, that together they understood 
what mortals call the inscrutable ways, the devious counsels of the 
Almighty, which ever, as they advanced in knowledge, seemed vaster 
to their comprehension. Together they rejoiced in the loveliness, 
the splendors of creation ; and here, as never before, soul answered 
soul, and he and she were no longer divided. Yet he was not al- 
ways with her. In this spirit-world he met again all the true love 
and friendship he had ever known. The reality appeared, the dross 
and alloy had melted away. It no longer seemed sad that there 
they neither married nor were given in marriage. The love all bore 
to one another made them willing to share their joys; they met with 
rapture, they parted without pain. For over and above, and in and 
through all, was the light which no man can approach unto. 

So time had gone, and forever and forever new pleasures, new de- 
lights, awaited them ; and for everything which they had given up 
for conscience’ sake they seemed to be recompensed through all 
eternity. And then a higher flight of glory seemed to be vouchsafed 
to him, but what he saw cannot be written in pages such as these. 

All consciousness left him ; he lay like a log, with the winds roar- 


126 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


ing and raving above him, the thunder rolling, and the rain dashing 
in sheets on his face. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

GOOD SAMARITANS. 

Two gentlemen were driving towards Campertown at break of day. 

“What a storm we had in the night!” said one. 

“I am very glad it is over; I was beginning to think the roof 
would have been blown in,” said the other. 

They had been visiting an outlying hut, and had stayed the night 
there. 

“Look under the trees yonder,” returned his friend, a Mr. Phil- 
pot; “ a man is lying there, surely.” 

“ Can’t be.” 

“But it is,” said Mr. Philpot, pulling up, and giving the reins to 
his friend, Mr. Groves; “stay here, while 1 go and see.” 

He returned shortly. 

“By his dress he is a clergyman” — for even in the bush Mr. 
Manley had retained clerical costume — “and I am afraid he is 
dead.” 

Mr. Groves got out, hitched the reins round a tree, and looked at- 
tentively at the recumbent figure. 

“ He is not dead,” he said. “ What a fine face he has!” for Mr. 
Manley’s face, though wasted, had grown beautiful in its expres- 
sion of calm repose. 

Mr. Philpot took out his flask, and administered a few drops of 
brandy. After a short interval, they forced about a teaspoonful 
down his throat. 

“He is drenched to the skin,” said Mr. Groves. “What are we 
to do with him?” 

“Take him with us to the nearest station, and that is five miles 
out of our way.” 

“He is at death’s door,” said Mr. Groves, who had been a medi- 
cal student formerly; “he will not get sufficient attention at On- 
slow’s station; we had better take him with us to Campertown, and 
put him up at some hotel.” 

With some difficulty they lifted and placed him in the vehicle. 
Mr. Groves supported him on the journey, and from time to time 
administered brandy; but at Campertown these good Samaritans 
would not leave him at a hotel. 

“I will put him up myself,” said Mr. Philpot, who lived in the 
place, and was a wealthy man. “Go for a doctor at once, will you. 
Groves.” 

For three days Mr. Manley lay on his bed unable to move hand 
or foot. In unconsciousness — in merciful, profound unconscious- 
ness— his weary brain was at rest at last. But when at length he 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


127 


came to himself, he awoke with his mind clear and bright, in the 
fullest possession of his senses. His first words were, “I thank 
my God.” 

Then he asked how he had been saved, and when they told him, 
he was too weak to reply; he lay again in profound stillness, a 
look of peace on his face. 

For a week he hovered between life and death, and then his 
vigor began to return to him, and he knew that he should live ; but 
he still could not rise. Then he asked if he were in a town, and if 
there were a clergyman in it. 

They told him there was, on which he requested that he might 
be sent for to administer the communion. 

The doctor attending him mistook his meaning. 

“You are not going to die, sir; I will stake my professional rep- 
utation that you will recover.” 

“ I know it,” returned Mr. Manley, “ but it is my wish to do as I 
have said.” 

They acceded to his request, and he spent the rest of the day in 
silence. And then, when he could leave his bed, he found that 
every toilet requisite was supplied ; his clothes, wayworn and soiled 
with travel, had been renovated; and that every accessory, in the 
way of slippers, handkerchiefs, and so on, was ready for him. To 
his kind host, and to Mr. Groves, he was profoundly grateful; but 
he said little in actual words. 

As soon as he was able they drove him to church one Sunday 
morning, arriving about the time of the communion service. There 
were few communicants; they only filled the space of the altar- 
rails. Mr. Manley knelt last of them all ; but when the clergyman, 
seeing a brother clergyman, would have administered to him first, he 
motioned to him to begin at the other end, receiving last of all, 
and saying, in his inmost heart, ‘ ‘ I am not worthy. ” 

The service over, he retired to his room, and was not seen again 
that day. 

He was now without worldly goods, without money, without, as 
he thought, reputation ; and yet he was saying, in the depths of his 
heart, “I thank my God.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

DESPONDENCY. 

Mr. Philpot’s kindness did not end by forcing Mr. Manley to 
accept a loan, for which he could scarcely be prevailed on to re- 
ceive an acknowledgment; but on hearing that Mr. Manley wished 
to proceed without delay to Mr. Yorke’s station, he himself volun- 
teered to accompany him. 

“You are not fit to travel at all,” he said, kindly; “much less 
alone.” 


128 


THE BACIIELOll VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


In truth, lie had been more impressed than he cared to acknowl- 
edge by the clergyman’s patient endurance, his courteous manner, 
and, above all, his earnest face and expression. lie would gladly 
have detained him longer, but Mr. Manley was anxious to arrive at 
Mr. Yorke’s, for he looked on him as more than a brother. 

Mr. and Mrs. Yorke received him with open arms. He was still 
very weak, and Mr. Yorke insisted that he should for the present 
keep entirely to his own set of rooms, taking his meals when and 
how he pleased, without feeling himself bound to join the dinner- 
table, where often there were many guests. 

But it was by no means Mr. Yorke’s intention to leave his visitor 
in solitude. He sat with him, he read to him, and often in the 
night he would come to him to make sure he wanted for nothing, 
and, seeing him quietly sleeping, would gently depart. For Mr. 
Manley could sleep now; sometimes he thought he could not sleep 
enough. His sleep was profound, dreamless; his mind had entire- 
ly ceased its strange workings. 

Then, as he grew stronger, he would by degrees join the family 
circle, and talk in his old pleasant fashion to"^ their child, or enter 
into conversation with Mrs. Yorke, who was clever. But it went 
to her heart sometimes to see how sad his face was when he thought 
he was unobserved, to note the far-away look in his eyes. 

‘ ‘ I wish you would get him to tell you what is troubling him, 
William,” she said to her husband. “I am sure there is some- 
thing on his mind; perhaps it is about that Ethel.” For her Mrs. 
Yorke had not even now the commonest patience. 

So one evening, when Mr. Manley was in his own sitting-room, 
leaning back in a very comfortable arm-chair at the open window, 
looking at the azaleas and other flowers in full bloom outside, Mr. 
Yorke stood beside him, and, placing his hand on his shoulder, 
said, very kindly, “Phil, dear boy, won’t you tell me what the trou- 
ble is?” 

Mr. IVIanley looked at the kind, true face of his friend, and hesi- 
tated as to whether he should tell him or not ; to every other human 
being he knew his lips would be sealed. 

“You haven’t forgotten Ethel yet; is that it?” asked Yorke, re- 
volving in his mind whether matters might not yet be patched up 
between them, if he still loved her. 

Mr. Manley shook his head. 

“It seems to me I have forgotten her; I rarely think of her.” 
And, indeed, he thought he had in one sense forgotten her. 

Yorke took a chair beside him. 

“You have something on your mind, I know; I have long seen 
it, my wife now sees it.” 

“The matter of which I am now about to speak is one which 
you must not repeat to your wife,” said Mr. Manley, with a touch 
of his old determination. 

“I will not.” 

Then Mr. Manley told him the entire history of his latter days 
among the blacks, of his mental sufferings, of his loss of faith ; and 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


129 


finally, some little of the vision vouchsafed to him (for such he be- 
lieved it), though never again did this narrative cross his lips. 

Yorke listened in silence to the end. 

“But what is the trouble now?” he asked, at length. 

‘ ‘ Do 5’’ou think it is no trouble to a man such as I am to have de- 
nied his God?” he said ; and spoke further words of humility 
which grieved Yorke to his very soul. 

He thought of the men he knew, living, many of them, happy, 
careless, sometimes sinful lives, and how no remorse affected them, 
while here was this man, who had lived the life of a martyr and a 
saint, bowed down to the dust with the sense of his own unworthi- 
ness. 

“My dear Phil,” he exclaimed, “my more than brother, you 
make a great mistake ; you do, indeed. On your own showing you 
were ill and weak; your mind and body were not properly bal- 
anced. . Under these circumstances, you went through certain 
phases of feeling, for which you are no more responsible than my 
child would be for the like. ” 

Mr. Manley shook his head. 

“You did not wish to feel as you did, you would have given all 
you possessed not to have felt it; therefore you are blameless, en- 
tirely blameless.” 

“How if I felt thus in consequence of some Sin, even to myself 
scarcely acknowledged — some sin, perhaps, of former years?” 

This speech cut Yorke yet more deeply, who knew how stainless 
his friend’s life had been. 

“You pain me more than I can tell you, Phil,” he said, gravely; 
“ you are not yourself. If our cases were reversed, you would be 
the first to tell me that I ought to comfort myself, and not attribute 
my feelings to any other ground than my own health. I do not 
profess to understand these matters generall}^, but I do most strong- 
ly feel that you are now wrong. Your vision may, step by step, 
be traced to actual causes— the thunder, the wind, the rain, the re- 
membrance of your books, of Ethel, and so on. So also with your 
other feelings ; they were simply morbid.” 

But Mr. Manley again shook his head. 

“Put it on other grounds, then,” continued Yorke. “Granted 
that it was your own fault that you couldn’t always be a St. Paul— 
though I don’t for a moment admit it was — don’t you think that to 
be the subject of a special vision (if you will have it it was a vision) 
a man must be the very reverse of a bad man, or he would not be 
so honored?” 

“God forbid I should ever believe that," said Mr. Manley, in his 
deep voice, and putting his white hand to his face, on which the 
color had now begun to return. 

Yorke was in despair. 

“What argument can I adduce?” he thought. 

“Come, Phil,” he said, cheerily, “pick up heart. I see you are 
better fitted to give counsel than to take it. If you don’t believe 
me, go to your bishop, to your archbishop, if you will (you were 

9 


130 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


always such a stickler for Church authority, I know), and see if they 
don’t tell you the same as I do.” 

“I admit fully the authority of my bishop,” said Mr. Manley, 
gravely; “but he cannot judge between me and my own soul.” 

“And yet you advise others, and expect them to receive your 
counsel as authoritative.” 

“They are laymen, I am a priest.” 

“My dear old boy,” returned Yorke, with a laugh, though he felt 
to the full the trouble of his friend, “you are becoming a regular 
kill -joy; cheer up, and forget your troubles. Speak to me in a 
year’s time, and then tell me if you do not judge yourself different- 
ly. And now, good-night,” and Yorke grasped his hand warmly. 

Mr. Manley remained deep in thought for some time, and then it 
seemed to him that possibly his friend might be right. But that 
the vision was a vision, and nothing else, he would always believe 
to the end of his days. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

RETURNING HEALTH. 

The advice given by Yorke was wholesome; the seed had taken 
root, and was destined to bear fruit. For this man, who in former 
days had never read either the Athanasian Creed or the Commination 
Service from the moment that the Church allowed of the omission, 
feeling from the love he bore his people that he could not willingly 
sit in judgment on them, had, during the preceding weeks, been judg- 
ing himself far more sternly than his worst enemy would have done. 

From this time he was very seldom allowed to be alone. It was, 

‘ ‘ Phil, I wish you would drive my wife over to So-and-so’s, I am busy 
and can’t go.” Or, “Please, Mr. Manley, come and help me to cut 
these flowers, the stalks hurt my Angers so;” and Mrs. Yorke would ^ 
display her white hands in an injured manner, knowing full well 
that she could have summoned the gardener to her assistance in one 
minute. Or it would be, “The housekeeper would be so much 
pleased if Mr. Manley would look at her storerooms, and see the pro- 
visions served out to the men.” Or, “The groom would be glad if 
Mr. Manley would choose which horses he preferred to drive.” 

The child too — a very pretty, engaging little girl of two years old, 
the delight of Yorke’s heart — who had been scrupulously kept away 
from Mr. Manley’s sitting-room, now constantly came in through the 
open windows, when he would at once lay aside his writing or his 
books, and take her on his knee and amuse her. 

A messenger would constantly arrive: “The master was busy; 
could Mr. Manley look into such-and-such a thing for him.” Once, 
when thus summoned to see a man who had met with an accident, 
and cut himself badly, Mr. Manley caught sight of Yorke’s retreat- 
ing form through the back of the shed. He called him. “Why 
did you send, as you were here yourself?” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


131 


“Oh,” replied Yorke, coolly, “I always have my hands full; I 
really don’t see why you shouldn’t help me.” 

So, in his old fashion, Mr. Manley fell into his old custom of talk- 
ing pleasantly and genially with all with whom he was brought into 
contact, and forgot himself in serving others. He observed that, by 
degrees, all the deep and learned books w'hich Yorke had placed at 
first in his sitting-room were removed, and replaced by novels, comic 
papers, and the most trivial literature. 

'There was one book — a geological work, newly brought out — 
which, being interested in, he determined to keep, and took it into 
his bedroom at night. He was reading it the next morning, when 
Mrs. Yorke stepped in at his sitting-room window, looking as fresh 
as a rose, her hands full of flowers. 

“Here are some lovely roses for you, Mr. Manley,” she said, be- 
ginning to place them in vases on the table; “ and,” glancing at the 
book on his knees, ‘ ‘ I am very sorry, but I want that book you are 
reading; I have promised it to a friend.” 

He smiled. “Do you think your friend would mind w^aiting 
a day or two?” he said. “I am really interested in these theories, 
which are something new. ” 

“Oh, I am sure he would,” said Mrs. Yorke, with decision. “I 
promised it to him yesterday; it is Mr. Greengrass, of the Wattles. 
I thought, perhaps, you would not mind taking me over there now to 
leave it. ” 

He closed the book with reluctance, and declared himself quite 
ready. And during the five-mile drive there, surely so clever a 
woman as Mrs. Yorke talked a vast amount of nonsense, making 
riddles, and repeating the queer sayings of the country folk, at whicli 
Mr. Manley found himself smiling. 

It was a bright, beautiful morning, the sun’s heat tempered with a 
refreshing breeze. He said he had greatly enjoyed his drive, as they 
arrived at the Wattles. Mrs. Yorke alone alighted, reappearing in a 
minute or two, accompanied by Mrs. Greengrass. 

“ So much obliged to you,” he heard the latter say, as she stood in 
the doorway. 

The book lay for some months on Mr. Greengrass’s table, whence 
it was duly returned — unopened. 

A twinkle of his old humor came into Mr. Mauley’s eye — he having 
seen through the ruse at once— on their return drive. 

“A ten-mile drive, and all your trouble, to keep me from reading 
that book,” he said, looking her full fn the face. “I am much 
obliged to you, Mrs. Yorke.” She blushed scarlet for a moment, 
then laughed. 

“Was the device, then, so transparent? But, Mr. IVJanley, when 
any one has been as ill as you have been he ought not, indeed, to 
read much.” 

“lam beginning to think you are right,” he answered, gently. ‘ ‘ I 
dare say you know what is best for me, better than I do myself. ” 

The calls on his time were now becoming so frequent that he had 
but little to spare. The charm of his manner had so impressed every 


132 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEAVFORTH. 


one on the station that he would often be sent for quite independ- 
ently of Mr. Yorke; for every man and every woman wished to have 
a kind word from him, and would seize on any pretence for doing 
so, more especially the women. It recalled to him his Newforth 
days, when he could not escape from the ladies, who coined pretexts 
for receiving a word or a smile from him, although it was not quite 
thus that he put it to himself. Then there were nice girls brought to 
stay in the house, and Mr. Manley was directed to escort them hither 
and thither. To them he was invariably courteous and kind, but his 
heart was still too sore with regard to Ethel to allow of any new at- 
traction. 

“ Such a charming man,” said the girls. 

“ What a delightful visitor!” And so on. 

The conversation seemed to be very frivolous very often; one 
would have supposed that no one had ever heard of a poet, unless, 
indeed, some faint recollection of Shakespeare survived. And when 
Mr. Manley, on giving up sitting alone, searched the bookshelves for 
something worth reading, he found little but what he emphasized as 
trash, quite ignorant that Yorke had spent an entire morning in rear- 
ranging his large stock of books, and had caused boxfuls to be put 
away. 

One day he asked him if he would hold a service on Sunday in the 
large hall outside. 

“Certainly,” said Mr. Manley, much gratified; “and am I to 
preach?” 

“ Well, no, Phil,” said Yorke, with a laugh; “ we don’t care about 
sermons in this part of the world.” 

Mrs. Yorke was on the point of responding, warmly, X\iqX every one 
would care about Mr. Manley’s sermons; a warning look from her 
husband checked her. Mr. Manley felt glad he was not called on t® 
preach ; he knew himself that his mind required rest yet. 

But when the service was held, Yorke, who never could or would 
be induced to rise in church on the clergyman’s entrance, stood up 
when Mr. Manley appeared, and remained standing for some min- 
utes, and with him the entire congregation. After this, he was re- 
quested to read prayers every day, a shortened form, and the same 
mark of respect was invariably paid him. 

As yet he had held to his teetotal principles/ and had observed 
with satisfaction that all the men employed on the station drank 
nothing but tea. But, though his color and strength had returned, 
Mr. Yorke was not 5^et satisfied about his friend. He accosted him 
abruptly one day. 

“ If I asked you to do me a favor, would you do it?” 

“Of course I would,” replied Mr. Manley, cheerfully. 

“ I w^ant you to take some medicine.” 

“ Oh,” returned the other, “that really is a stretch of friendship 
on your part; I have no faith in drugs.” 

“ Here it is,” said Yorke, laughing, and producing a bottle of port 
wine, on which Mrs. Yorke had placed a label, with medicine writ- 
ten in large letters. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


133 


“ And you are to take two large glasses a day. Keep it in here, 
and no one will be the wiser, I suggest this, or else I know I shall 
be told about example, and all that. You really want it, Phil; be 
guided by me.” 

“I will be guided by you,” said the clergyman, who was no ascetic 
for asceticism’s sake; “I will certainly take it.” 

The bottle, when finished, was replaced by another and another, 
on all of which Mrs. Yorke placed the same label; and then Mr. 
Manley declared that he was now thoroughly well, and would take 
no more. Neither did his friends think it necessary to urge him. 

He was playing with the little girl one day on the lawn, throwing 
her a ball. As Y orke was advancing, it fell on his head. The child 
laughed, and Mr. Manley gave a cheery, hearty laugh, which glad- 
dened his friend’s heart. He placed his hand on his shoulder. 

“The Vicar of old times has come back, Phil,” he exclaimed, 
kindly. “ I was beginning to be afraid at one time that we had got 
hold of a St. Simeon Stylites; and now, old fellow, you may preach, 
or read, or do anything you please; I wash my hands of you.” 

It was true; the Vicar had returned, the visionary had departed. 
His remorse had gone, and, save for a great regret, which he thought 
would keep him humble to the end of his days, prevent his ever feel- 
ing pride respecting himself, and cause him more deeply to sympa- 
thize witli the erring, there were no evil traces left behind of the 
night on which he had lain down to die. 

Then one day, on the arrival of the English mail, came a bundle, 
a sheaf, a package of letters from Newforth, addressed to Mr. Man- 
ley, to be forwarded to him by Mr. Yorke without delay; they were 
most important. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

MRS. CARTER. 

In the spring of the year succeeding that in which Mr. Manley 
had left Newforth there came a lady to stay at one of the principal 
hotels— a lady dressed very handsomely, but in widow’s deepest 
mourning. She arrived late one afternoon ; her luggage bore foreign 
labels. As her dinner was being served, she talked to the landlord, 
who himself waited in the room. 

Her interest seemed to centre principally in the church, about 
which she asked many questions. It was a pity the spire was not 
yet completed, she said ; for somehow the work had lagged greatly 
of late; subscriptions no longer came in, and Mr. Ro wen’s mild ap- 
peals were disregarded.- 

“A fortnight’s work would finish it,” said the landlord. “Ah, 
ma’am, we want Mr. Manley back again.” 

“I heard he had gone, ’’said the lady, “but I did not know why. 
What made him leave?” 


134 THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 

“ He left, ma’am, because be was under a bit of a cloud.” 

“ What cloud?” 

The landlord hesitated. 

“lam particularly interested in news of him,” said the lady. “ I 
beg you will tell me all you can.” 

He then entered into the fullest particulars of the late Vicar’s 
troubles, the story losing nothing in the telling. The lady’s face as- 
sumed an expression of the deepest concern. 

“And I never to have been told of this!” she said. “ I am deeply 
gi’ieved.” 

Thus encouraged, the landlord enlarged on the tale still further. 

“And I will say this, ma’am,” he continued, “that he was as pleas- 
ant a gentleman to speak to as ever lived, and had a kind word for 
every one.” 

“And what is your opinion? Do you think he did wrong?” she 
asked, suddenly. 

“ Well, you see, ma’am, I don’t think he meant harm; and if that 
designing hussy at Fisherman’s Cove hadn’t got hold of him he might 
have been here now.” 

The lady turned away, and looked out of the window. 

“Can you give me the address of the two church-wardens?” she 
asked, after a time. 

“Certainly, ma’am. Mr. Leslie lives at Knollside now; he lost a 
deal of money by the failure of a bank, caused by that swindler of a 
fellow, the manager, Carter” — a shade of pain crossed the lady’s face 
— “and had to move into a small house. Admiral Hatton is the 
other; he lives at a place called The Elms.” 

“ Did they remain friendly to him?” she asked. ✓ 

“ Mr. Leslie stuck to him through thick and thin, Admiral Hatton 
quarrelled outright. You see, his daughter was engaged to Mr. Man- 
ley, and the Admiral didn’t like the goings-on at the Cove.” 

“Was the engagement broken off for this reason?” she asked, in a 
constrained voice. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am; entirely so. He was rare fond of her, ’tis said; 
but she wouldn’t have anything more to say to him.” 

“You say the mayor was one of the most prominent persons at 
these meetings?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And where does he live?” 

The landlord told her; she noted down the address, and went to 
her room to put on her bonnet. 

She called first on the Vicar, but he was out. She next went to 
Mr. Leslie’s. On the road young Mr. Allen met her, looking at her 
with undisguised curiosity. She pulled her veil over her face, and 
walked on, coloring perceptibly. Mr. Leslie was at home. 

“I have come, sir,” she said, in a very sweet voice, the tone of 
which, he thought, was familiar to him, “to ask you to see that a 
great wrong shall be righted. I am sure you will do so, for I have 
heard of your good-will towards Mr. Manley.” 

Mr. Leslie’s face lit up with pleasure. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


135 


“Is it about him?” he asked. “I assure you, madam, that 
uothing in life would give me greater pleasure than to see him 
righted. ” 

“I have been told,” said the lady, somewhat nervously, “that a 
great scandal arose concerning his visits to Fisherman’s Cove. He 
came to see me — ^me and my husband.” 

“ Tou ?” repeated Mr. Leslie, in surprise. “ I understood he vis- 
ited some working woman.” 

She colored. 

“We had reasons for representing working people — very painful 
reasons. I am Mr. Manley’s sister. ” 

He crossed over and shook hands with her. 

“My dear madam, I am rejoiced ; I am overjoyed. I always knew 
it was all right, and now I will make it known without delay all over 
Newforth. But why did he conceal the fact?” 

“My husband had put himself within reach of the law,” she said, 
in a low voice, “and I asked my brother to help us to get away to 
the coast of France quietly. He did so. My husband was very ill 
at the time ; he is now dead. I do not wish to speak evil of the dead 
and of my husband; but it is necessary that the facts should be 
known, in order that my brother, who has suffered so unjustly, may 
be cleared. I will take care that, as soon as he hears I have been to 
you, he shall send you an account of the whole story in writing; but 
at present — my loss is so recent, and I loved my husband — perhaps 
you will kindly spare me.” 

Mr. Leslie felt much touched. 

“We require no details from you, madam, whatever ; the one fact 
is sufficient. Your face alone guarantees that; you are wonderfully 
like him.” 

“lam considered so.” 

“But how was it he never mentioned you? We never knew he 
had a sister.” 

“We had not met since the time of my marriage; he — he disap- 
proved of my marriage, and would not visit my husband, until this 
trouble befell us, and then he came at once.” 

“ I can’t now understand it,” returned Mr. Leslie. “ Why could 
he not have told us in confidence?” 

“He had promised us faithfully that he would not tell an^ one; 
we— my husband— had been so nearly captured so many times. We 
knew that he had not six months to live, and my brother, after a great 
deal of entreaty from me, consented that we should come down here, 
he thinking that in so quiet a spot as the Cove, where he had so con- 
stantly visited without remark, we should entirely escape notice. It 
was ordained otherwise. Had you all known I was his sister, the 
police would have known it too; it was only the want of knowledge 
that I had relations which prevented their tracking us. And though 
all this trouble has befallen my brother entirely through us, his rep- 
utation taken from him, his church gone, his engagement broken off, 
yet, Mr. Leslie, would you believe that, beyond stating the bare facts 
that his engagement was broken off, and that he had resigned his liv- 


136 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

ing, he never told me one word of his troubles in the two letters I re'^ 
eeived from him.” 

“And where is he now?” 

“ Alas! I do not know. When last I heard of him he was in the 
heart of the bush.” 

“ He never writes here,” said Mr. Leslie; “ but I don’t wonder at 
that. Will you not tell me your name?” 

She colored again. 

“I am known by the name of Mrs. Reginald, but — but it is not 
my real name. If necessary, I will tell it you.” 

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Leslie, heartily; “it is no business of 
ours. Also,” he added, after a pause, “ I do not see why 1 need:tell 
any one that Reginald is not your real name, if you would rather I 
did not.” 

“You are very kind, very kind indeed; I should greatly prefer it.” 

“I will make the fact known that you are Mr. Manley’s sister all 
over the place to-day, without an hour’s delay. I am rejoiced, Mrs. 
Reginald, rejoiced.” 

Then an idea seemed to strike Mrs. Reginald. She looked up 
tremulously. When she looked gi-ave she was wonderfully like her 
brother; but her face did not lighten as did his when he smiled. 
The likeness brought all Mr. Leslie’s warm friendship to his remem- 
brance; he longed to clasp the former Vicar’s hand. 

“Mr. Leslie,” the lady said, with some agitation, “ I cannot accept, 
on my brother’s part, your kindness without telling you whom you 
are helping. But, before doing so, I would beseech your forbear- 
ance.” 

“lam quite in the dark as to what you mean, Mrs. Reginald,” he 
replied ; “ but any service I could render him would be but part pay- 
ment of the great debt of gratitude I owe him for all he has done for 
me— has made me, I may say.” 

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Reginald, in so low a tone that he could 
barely catch the words, “ that I and mine have wrought nothing but 
ill. Every worldly prospect of my brother’s, my husband and I have 
destroyed; while as for you, and many others in your position, oh, 
Mr. Leslie, forgive us, forgive my husband— my husband, who is 
dead!” 

As she spoke she raised her hands beseechingly. He began to 
wonder if she were mad. 

“ What am I to forgive?” he asked, in wonder. 

“You have lost a great deal of money, have you not, through 
Farmer’s bank failing?” 

“I have,” returned Mr. Leslie, hotly, “and all through that double- 
dyed scoundrel and villain. Carter. If I could only catch the rascal !” 
— for the memory of his wrongs was almost too much for Mr. Leslie 
at times. 

“ He is beyond your reach,” she said, with a tone of agony in her 
voice; “ he— he was my husband.” 

jNIr. Leslie turned sharply round, and walked to the window. He 
stood there, with his back turned to the room, his mintl full of the 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


137 


strongest indignation. So he, who had been the one man in the place 
who had stood by the Vicar, had helped him in every possible way, 
had been the one man who had been injured, and deeply injured, by 
that Vicar’s nearest relations. 

At first he felt anger against Mr. Manley. What right had he to 
secure his help under false pretences? Ought he not at least to have 
told him the circumstances, if him alone? And then he thought he 
heard the Vicar’s sad voice saying, as on the day he met him, “I have 
given my word that I will not say anything.” No, he did wrong to 
be angry with him; any day his word had been as good as his bond. 
But as for this scoundrel Carter — for him he had no forgiveness, nor, 
he thought, was it possible that he ever should have. And he, of all 
people, to be called on by this man’s wife to right the wrong caused 
by this man’s crimes. No! he would not do it. He stood thus some 
ten minutes, lost in angry thought. 

“Mr. Leslie, ’’said Mrs. Carter, in a quiet voice. 

He turned and faced her 

“It is too much to think you can forgive me and mine, I know 
you cannot. I think I will go to Admiral Hatton, and ask him to 
state the true facts about my brother ; it is hopeless to expect it now 
from you. I did not intend to tell you so much as I have done, but 
I felt I could not receive your kindness under false pretences. ” 

“No, no,” returned Mr. Leslie, hastily, “don’t go yet. Sit down 
again. I don’t want you to have to tell your painful story again to 
Admiral Hatton, You must give me time to think.” 

‘ ‘ Ah 1” said Mrs. Carter, ‘ ‘ we have wronged him too, and his daugh- 
ter, in being unconsciously the cause of the engagement with my 
brother being broken. It seems to me we have wronged emry 
one” 

Her handsome dress struck Mr. Leslie’s eye ; his anger returned in 
full force, 

“So,” he said to himself, “I suppose they have been living on the 
fat of the land in a foreign country, on the money defrauded from 
the widows and orphans, and me, while I could barely afford to give 
a beggarly two guineas to the spire fund”— which fund he had 
deeply at heart. 

“And did you spend all the money he took?” he asked, sharply. 

“Oh, no,” she replied, earnestly; “you must not indeed wrong 
me so much. We were very poor indeed, living entirely on my 
brother’s money.” 

“But what did — your husband”— he was on the point of saying 
“ that villain ’’—“what did your husband do with it?” 

“I cannot tell you. I know no more than you do. He was in 
league with a stockbroker, I know, who took the lion’s share of the 
spoil, and squandered thousands. My— my husband constantly ap- 
propriated more deeds and bonds out of sheer dread lest his former 
defalcations should be discovered ; this man made him do it. He, I 
believe, is still a respectable member of society ’’—she said this with 
much bitterness— “ but, at the same time, a very large parcel of bonds 
and deeds, covering sums of enormous value, hgs entirely disappeared. 


138 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


3Iy husband had it with him when he left London ; but he was then 
ill, and at times quite oblivious of his actions. Many and many a 
time did he try to recall where he had placed it, but without avail. 
He remembered having deposited it in some hiding-place — some safe 
hiding-place, but where, no effort of will could recall to his mind. 
Would that I could find it! I would restore it instantly.” 

Mr. Leslie involuntarily glanced at her handsome dress. 

“ You are looking at what I wear,” she said, simply; “ it was all 
given me by my aunt, with whom I am now living. I have not a 
shilling in the world but what she allows me. She has paid my ex- 
penses for coming to this place. I came, because I wished to ascer- 
tain if there were any news of my brother ; but I should have come 
as soon as my husband was buried, if I could only have known the 
great wrong that had been done.” 

Her words recalled to Mr. Leslie the Vicar’s great troubles, which 
he had forgotten in his own. He remembered all his goodness, his 
kindness, &s real and unostentatious and heartfelt religion, his ex- 
ample, so much more powerful than any precept. 

His face cleared, he spoke gently. 

“lam very sorry for you, Mrs. Carter— very sorry, indeed. And 
as I have always had the most hearty and genuine regard and ad- 
miration for yom’ brother, I will now do my utmost to right him, 
as far as may be possible. You need not go to any one else; rest 
assured that I will do as much as any man. ” 

“lam sure of it,” she replied, gratefully; “ you are a good man, 
Mr. Leslie.” 

“ No, I am not a good man,” he replied, bluntly. “A good man 
would forgive your husband, and that I can’t and won’t do.” 

She threw herself on her knees before him, her hands upraised, 
her faee, beautiful in its emotion, quivering. 

‘ ‘ I think you would forgive him, Mr. Leslie, if you knew all. He 
was never a good man — never a good man, think of that! Tou live 
respected and honored; you have your wife, your children, your 
home, and, above all, your religion. He had none. I knew he was 
a bad man, but I loved him, Mr. Leslie; I loved him better than my 
own life. He had no safeguard; when temptation assailed him, he 
fell. And fieree temptations assailed him. I say, without hesita- 
tion, that a man engaged in stockbroking transactions, and what is 
called city life, is in mortal danger to his soul when he has no relig- 
ion to uphold him. Men do pass through the ordeal untainted, 
but it is so as by fire, only those whose sense of honor is great. 
And, after all, how great the struggle!” 

Mr. Leslie placed her in a chair; the tears were streaming down 
her cheeks. He wished himself anywhere but in his present posi- 
tion. 

“ Why do you tell me this?” he said, kindly; “ you are only dis- 
tressing yourself. ” 

“Because I want you to forgive him,” she said, earnestly; “and 
because I think that if you do, others may. I want your pardon, in 
earnest of the pardon of others. ” 


THE BACHELOK VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


139 


Mr. Leslie again turned towards the window, saying, “I don’t 
think I can forgive him; I don’t feel like it.” 

“Must I tell you even more?” she cried, appealingly ; “must I 
say that even when he died I tried to hope, but — but, alas! it was 
only hope that I had. Oh, Mr. Leslie, if I were a clergyman, I would 
tell people from morning till night that how they died was of very 
little consequence; it was how they Ined. To imagine that at such 
a time any one has room in his mind for much more than his pres- 
ent feelings has always seemed to me sheer folly.” 

“ Did not the Vicar talk to your husband?” asked Mr. Leslie, his 
back still turned. 

“ He did all that a good man could do. He came day after day 
and night after night to him, to endeavor to rouse in him some feel- 
ing. I think — I know— he in some measure succeeded. But, as I 
said before, when you are ill and weak what can you think of but 
your bodily ailments? It is when you are well that you must 
think. ” 

“ How did he die?” asked Mr. Leslie, with some feeling. 

“Very quietly. He died of consumption — rapid consumption. 
We knew he could not live long. Do you then blame my brother 
for saving him from a felon’s dock and a felon’s death, and me from 
a worse — if worse be possible — recollection than I have already ? My 
heart would have broken when I saw him standing to be judged, 
and my brother knew it. He is always so merciful in his judgment 
of others, and he spoke to my husband words that I shall never for- 
get. Mr. Leslie, will you forgive your wrongs? I think you will, 
when you call to mind what was the end of him who committed 
them. He died an outcast — a man so disgraced that his widow 
dares not even take his name, and to support her in her grief for 
him has only — hope!” 

Her voice failed her, she covered her face with her hands. 

And then Mr. Leslie thought of Mr. Manley, and the wrongs that 
he had forgiven the dead man — forgiven them so completely that 
he had not even spoken of them to his sister. He had supported 
them in their poverty; but he had done far more— he had spoken 
words of gentleness and goodness and love, had shown by his life 
what he believed. This was indeed forgiveness. These visits to 
the Cove, about which so much mischief had been made, had then 
not only been to the wife, for the purpose of arranging their trans- 
portation to France— of itself a difficult and dangerous task under 
the circumstances— but they had been to the sinful, crime-stained 
liusband, to try to bring him to a knowledge of better things. And 
this was the man whom Newforth had sent away— this man, who 
had shown himself more than a hero, and throughout all his trouble 
had comported himself more than bravely. 

And then Mr. Leslie felt ashamed when he thought of himself, 
and the difference between his'lot and Mr. Manley’s. He had lost 
money, it was true; but what appreciable comfort? While here was 
this man, under a blazing Australian sun, toiling among savages, 
probably without a mui’mur. He felt a strange huskiness in his 


140 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


throat as he turned to Mrs. Carter, and said, gravely, “I for- 
give him from my heart, and may the Lord have mercy on his 
soul !” 


CHAPTER XL. 

MR. MANLEY’S SISTER. 

It was true, as Mrs. Carter had stated, that, in permitting their 
residence in Fisherman’s Cove, the Vicar had thought that two poor- 
looking people would be unobserved, and might, without much diffi- 
culty, be got over to one of the quiet French villages, where Mr. 
Carter might die unknown and unnoticed. 

The facts had been these ; During Mr. Manley’s residence at Cam- 
bridge Mr. Carter had been a fellow-student of his. He had known 
him well at one time, as had Mr. Yorke, and had permitted him to 
make acquaintance with his family, his sister being then a child. 
But, as time went on, Mr. Manley had refused to recognize him even 
as an acquaintance, for many circumstances had come to his knowl- 
edge through being a clergyman which were unknown to the world 
at large. He knew for a fact that he had appropriated his sister’s 
trust-money, had kept back bonds, had swindled in every way which 
would just keep him without the law, as concerned strangers. With 
regard to his transactions with his own relations he could have been 
arrested over and over again, but he knew his relations would not 
prosecute, and he lived to all appearance a happy life, making friends 
in every direction, and betraying them on every convenient oppor- 
tunity. 

During a visit at a country-house he met Miss Manley, .who was 
staying there also, and completely won her heart. He possessed a 
singularly attractive manner, which, combined with a handsome 
face, gained him much admiration from all the young ladies in the 
house; and Miss Manley felt very proud of her conquest when he 
proposed to her. 

Her father had been dead for many years, her mother had died 
lately. But, on writing to her brother to inform him of her engage- 
ment, she was greatly surprised and displeased at being told that, 
though he had no legal authority over her, yet, as her nearest rela- 
tion, he absolutely refused his consent. But he was not content 
with writing. He went to her, and in the kindest, gentlest manner, 
urged her to sacrifice her love to her principle. He told her of Mr. 
Carter’s character; he warned her that she would never be happy 
with him. But it was of no use. She was desperately in love with 
him, and had quite made up her mind to marry him, saying she did 
not believe any of the stories she had been told against him. 

Finding argument and entreaty of no use, Mr. Mauley took his 
resolution. He told his sister that he would not visit on friendly 
terms with a man whom he knew to be both a swindler and a liar, 
and that, as husband and wife cannot be separated by their rela- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


141 


tions, his sister must choose between him and Mr, Carter, She did 
so, and chose the latter; whereupon Mr. Manley held no communi- 
cation with them whatever until soon after he came to Newforth, 
when he received an imploring letter from his sister, telling him 
they were in great trouble ; would he go to London without delay, 
and meet her at the Charing Cross Hotel? 

It was quite enough for Mr. Manley to know that any one was in 
trouble; he went up to town without delay. In the course of an 
affecting meeting with his sister, she told him that, in some manner 
unknown to her, her husband had abstracted one thousand pounds 
from the bank, and if it were not replaced at once he would lose his 
responsible position. 

The Vicar had replied that it was quite out of his power to pay a 
thousand pounds, neither did he feel at all inclined to compound 
a felony. But his sister’s distress so worked on him — for he was 
greatly attached to her — that finally he promised he would raise all 
the money in his power to help. This was the reason of his severe 
economy at the time when he discharged one of his servants ; but he 
asked himself many a time whether he were right in paying Mr. 
Carter’s defalcations. He little dreamed that thousands upon thou- 
sands had been already stolen from the bank, and that this money 
— this hardly-obtained money — was to go only to Mr. Carter’s friend 
the stockbroker, who had threatened to expose him if the funds were 
not forthcoming. 

For a time after this the Vicar had lived in tranquillity — which 
tranquillity had been rudely disturbed on the failure of the bank, 
and the consequent revelations. At first Mr. Manley had declared 
that he would do nothing; but his sister’s great distress, and the 
knowledge that Carter could not live long, had decided him to help 
them. 

What danger they were in he knew, and it was not until they had 
gone through many and many a narrow escape of detection that 
they came down to Fisherman’s Cove. 

Mr. Manley had at first thought that he was not justified in mar- 
rying Ethel without acquainting her of the fact of his relationship 
to a swindler. But his sister had urged that Mr. Carter was no rela- 
tion of his, and that, having cut off the connection years ago, he 
was by no means bound to resume it now; which view Mr. Manley, 
after a time, adopted. It was then that the scandal had arisen, no 
word of which had he mentioned to his sister, knowing how greatly 
it would add to her distress. 

He had indeed been merciful. He had known that although Mrs. 
Carter had retained her love for her husband, he had treated her any- 
thing but well during their married life — had been cold and careless 
and indifferent. But seeing how greatly he stood in need of forgive- 
ness on all points, the Vicar had resolved to forgive him all, and 
after a struggle— a somewhat severe struggle— had done so most 
completely. 

In every way he had tried to awaken his seared conscience; he 
had talked to, he had prayed with him. And the man who, when 


142 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


reading to a small week-day congregation,would substitute the word 
“ condemnation ” for that other stronger-sounding though self-mean- 
ing word (as found in the New Version), lest he should offend a 
brother or sister who was weak, did not now presume to that 
mercy was not to be found even for Mr. Carter, and had bidden his 
sister — hope. 


CHAPTER XLl. 

MR. LESLIE’S CHARACTER. 

The news received by Mr. Leslie had greatly astonished him ; for 
some time after Mrs. Carter had gone away (and here it may be men- 
tioned that she left Newforth that very night) he remained pondering 
over what he had heard. 

Now, Mr. Leslie was a man who greatly sympathized with what 
is termed “Muscular Christianity,” and found it much easier to do 
a kind action than to go to church often, and perpetually repeat 
prayers. 

“ I must be the wrong sort of fellow,” he had been heard to say; 
‘ ‘ but I couldn’t go on at it in church, as parsons do, to save my 
life.” 

On this occasion, having been much moved, he was of opinion 
that his forgiveness should not be merely of a negative order; but 
would be best shown by suppressing the whole of the painful facts 
that Mrs. Carter had told him from every one except his wife, she 
being one of the few women whom he knew could keep a secret ; 
and that, in order to put Mr. Manley right in the eyes of the world, 
it was only necessary to say that a Mr. and Mrs. Reginald were 
staying in Fisherman’s Cove, and that Mrs. Reginald had been the 
Vicar’s sister, which fact he had solemnly promised not to reveal, 
Mr. Reginald being under a cloud at the time, having put himself 
within reach of the law. He knew also that Mr. Manley would far 
rather that his relationship with so notorious a swindler as Mr. Car- 
ter should not be known, for the late Vicar was not a man without 
pride of birth. He came of a good stock, and was pleased that he 
could trace his descent in an unbroken line to the 3’'ear 1113, almost 
all his ancestors having belonged either to the old nobility or landed 
gentry. 

Whether they came over with the Conqueror or not he did not 
know, and certainly did not care; the idea that every one could have 
ancestors who did so being a little too much for his credulity. He 
had been heard to state with great satisfaction that when, on one oc- 
casion, an offshoot of the Manley family fell so low as actually to be 
obliged to enter the workhouse, the name was so much respected in 
the county that they allowed him to wear his own clothes, and did 
not compel him to put on workhouse dress. 

At nine Mrs. Leslie, who had been visiting Mrs. Hatton, came in. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWPORTII. 


143 


“You seem very thoughtful to-night, Frank,” she said, observing 
her husband’s grave countenance. 

Now Mr. and Mrs. Leslie were a most attached couple, and through- 
out their married life had never had a quarrel, which state of affairs 
few married people can boast of. They might have claimed Dun- 
mow flitches of bacon without end, Mr. Leslie was wont to say. 

Mrs. Leslie had begun her married life with a most sincere affec- 
tion for her husband, but without any ideas of ecstatic bliss. Start- 
ing with the theory that every man had certain peculiarities, she 
had resolved that, whatever lier husband’s might be, she would con- 
form to them. She said to him one day, “ Men are such eccentric 
beings that 1 discovered long ago that the only way to understand 
them is to confess that you understand them; you are then pre- 
pared for any little vagaries on their part, and can condone a great 
deal.” She did so, and Mr. Leslie, who was not always an easy man 
to deal with, believed that there was not such another woman in the 
world. With the exception of displaying an overplus of china when 
they had lived in their large house, he thought everything right that 
she did. Since their marriage he had never once found fault with 
her. 

She said sometimes, “Frank is the last person to whom I would 
go if I wanted an opinion, for he believes in me altogether too much. 
I cannot do wrong in his eyes;” and though she would at times 
gladly have consulted her husband, this very knowledge prevented 
her from attaching much weight to his counsel in connection with 
her. As a rule, if anything troubled her, she kept it to herself, 
knowing that it would cause him distress, and in most cases quite 
unnecessary distress. 

For herself, she had certainly been under the impression that a 
man so greatly in love as Mr. Leslie had been (and so continuously 
attached to her afterwards) would have confided some of his thoughts 
to her, as well as his outward actions. But it was not so. Living 
in the utmost affection and harmony, they yet never spoke to one 
another of their deeper thoughts. He felt sure that she was — as he 
put it— on the right side, and she hoped and thought that he was; 
but open mention of any except surface ideas there was none. 

On this occasion Mr. Leslie did not say a word about Mrs. Car- 
ter’s request that he would forgive her husband, or that he had prom 
ised to do so. lie told her the main facts of the story, and urged 
upon her that she should keep it as secret as he intended to do. 

“And what are you going to do now about Mr. Manley?” she 
asked, her eyes sparkling— “ Mr. Manley, who has been so shame- 
fully treated.” 

“That I must take time to think about,” he replied, “but, depend 
upon it, 1 will not leave a stone unturned.” 


144 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

- REPARATION. 

“Harry,” .exclaimed Miss Hatton, running to meet Captain 
Worsley, in great excitement — “Harry! what do you think?” 

“I think,” responded the young man, good-temperedly, “that it 
is a fine day, and that you are looking very jolly, and that I have 
come to spend the day with you; but I don’t know that I think 
much else besides, except that I am awfully glad to see you.” 

Miss Hatton paid little attention to this speech. 

“It’s about the Vicar, Harry — our late Vicar, Mr. Manley — who 
was the best and the nicest and the most charming man that ever 
lived, and the worst treated by the wretched people of Newforth,” 

The young man laughed. 

“ You shouldn’t put on too many superlatives, Gertrude, don’t you 
know? They will stultify one another. Now, be a little more ex- 
plicit, and tell me what this angelic being has been and gone and 
done and suffered.” 

“You may well say, ‘ been and done and suffered,”’ returned Miss 
Hatton, “ and most nobly suffered. But as it is a fact that he has 
also ‘been and goiu,' I don’t see what retribution can be made, or 
how he can be compensated in any way for all he has gone through. 
We can’t ask Mr. Rowen to go away.” 

She entered then into a lengthy account of the whole affair, by no 
means sparing her sister in her recital. 

“To think,” she continued, indignantly, “that his face alone 
could not have convinced Ethel of his truth. Why, his expression 
spoke for itself!” 

“Were you in love with him, my dear?” asked Captain Worsley, 
with a smile. 

“Well, you see, Harry,” she replied, laughing, “I hadn’t the 
chance, because, from the time he first came, he showed so openly 
that he preferred Ethel. But,” she added, mischievously, “ there is 
no saying what I might have done had he asked me to marry him, 
because, as I have often said, he is the sort of man that any girl 
might like.” 

“Now you’re trying to make me savage,” said Captain Worsley, 
with good-temper; “ but go on as much as you like, my dear. I’m 
not one of your fire-eating fellows, who thinks that because he likes 
a girl she ought to live in a glass case, and not so much as know 
there is another man in the w'orld. I’m not jealous.” 

“That’s right, Harry,” said Miss Hatton, warmly. “ Of course 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


145 


you’re not, and have no cause to be. But I can’t help being a little 
excited about this news.” 

And some further conversation ensued about the late Vicar. 

_ “If 1 wrote a dictionary,” she said, at length, “I should put an 
entirely new meaning to the word ‘ Vicar.’ ” 

“And what might that be?” 

‘ ‘ It would run thus : ‘ Vicar — a word signifying a man who helps 
every one, and serves every one, and is good to every one, and, in 
some cases, is put upon and imposed upon by every one. ’ ” 

Captain Worsley laughed. 

“That’s quite wrong, Gertrude,” he said. “Listen to my defini- 
tion; ‘Vicar — a man who has a precious easy time of it; who is 
flattered and praised and run after by ladies, and invited out and 
pampered and coddled — all because his surplice is becoming, and he 
has the power of making sweet speeches.’ ” 

“Harry! you are a perfect wretch; you knoxo it isn’t true. What 
about your father?” for Captain Worsley’s father had been a clergy- 
man. 

“ My father,” said Captain Worsley — “my father was the jolliest 
old boy going, and, if he had been a young man, would have proved 
the truth of my words. He had a precious eas}r life, I’m sure. Read 
two services a day on Sunday, and shut up his church during the 
remainder of the week, when he was going out to dinners and 
luncheons.” 

“I suppose he had to preach.” 

Captain Worsley laughed. 

“ Oh, yes, he preached two sermons a week; and it’s a most re- 
markable thing that they bore a wonderful resemblance to a book 
of sermons extending over three years, that we had in the house, 
proving, without a doubt, that great minds often run in the same 
groove. I often used to hear the ladies say, ‘ How well Mr. Wors- 
ley preaches !’ ‘ 8uch originality of idea,’ and so on.” 

“You are horrid to talk of your father so, Harry,” said Miss Hat- 
ton, who could not forbear from a laugh; “but our Vicar always 
composed his own sermons. However, if it will please you, I will 
allow he had one fault : he didn’t always shake hands as if he meant 
it. Indeed, his usual hand-shake was quite aggravating; it con- 
veyed so plainly, ‘Pray understand that I don’t extend any real 
warmth of feeling towards you.’ ” 

They had been sitting in the dining-room. Ethel now came in, 
and asked them to go into the drawing-room, as the cloth had to be 
laid for dinner. 

She listened to her sister’s last remark, and remembered that Mr. 
Manley had always held her hand in a warm, lingering pressure. 
She was now suffering greatly. She had heard Mr. Leslie’s account, 
and her remorse was very great. She could not lose the thought of 
her own folly in distrusting him; she positively hated herself. But, 
at the same time, she did not think the explanation sufficient. What 
cloud could this Mr. Reginald — whom no one had ever heard of — 
be under to justify Mr. Manley in entirely destroying his happiness 

10 


146 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWPORTH. 


and hers by not telling her Mrs. Reginald was his sister. Greatly as 
she grieved, still she could not think he could have had any sufficient 
excuse for his reticence to her. 

As Mr. Leslie had declared he would do, he left no stone unturned. 
Not content with going round personally to nearly every one he 
knew, he summoned a public meeting, at which he took care that 
reporters should be present. He then stated such facts as he con- 
sidered advisable, and made so strong and convincing a speech in 
Mr. Manley’s favor that every one in the room felt ashamed to think 
of the manner in which so good a man had been driven away from 
them. 

“Yes,” said the mayor (who had been re-elected), meditatively, 
“ I said at the time that perhaps we 'ad been a little ’asty, and I see 
we ’ave. Perhaps some compensation — ” and he fingered his purse 
as if with the idea of offering Mr. Manley a five-pound note ! 

A brilliant idea at once struck Mr. Leslie. 

“The only compensation we can make him,” he said, “ is by car- 
rying forward and at once completing the work he had at heart. Let 
us iww subscribe for the spire fund.” For he was well aware that 
public feeling is very fleeting and fluctuating, and that in the first 
glow of their indignation and regret the congregation would be likely 
to contribute far more handsomely than when they had to a certain 
extent cooled down. He knew that Mr. Manley would have said 
that the money was of far less value than the spirit in which it was 
given ; but, for his part, he was quite willing to take people’s money 
without their feelings. These he considered might be thrown in 
gratiSy but that was purely optional. 

His suggestion was received with acclamation, and the requisite 
money to complete the work was subscribed in the room. As for 
the peal of bells, they were quite finished and ready to be hung. By 
the end of April the spire was completed, the vane flying, and, to the 
great delight of the parishioners, the first peal had been rung. 

As to Mrs. Vincent, she was overjoyed that the Vicar’s name was 
cleared at last, and Captain Vincent also expressed himself much 
pleased. To celebrate the proceeding, she declared that she should 
name the bells in the following manner: The clock bell was to be 
‘ ‘ Mr. Manley. ” Then followed ‘ ‘ The Vicar,” “ Theophilus,” ‘ ‘John ” 
(Mr. Manley’s second name); and as, said Mrs. Vincent, the company 
was so very good, she wished herself and her husband to be among 
it, and would therefore call two of the remaining bells “Rupert” 
and “ Amaryllis, ” their Christian names. The other two bells she al- 
together declined to name, some vague idea that Mr. Manley might 
one day return and name them himself actuating her. 

As for Captain Vincent, he roared with laughter at the names se- 
lected, and said it would be the joke of the town. But she declared 
that Captain Vincent’s wife could do no wrong in Newforth, and 
it was her wish that it should be so, in order to show the people 
how completely it was owing to Mr. Manley that they had the 
bells at all. 

The names were known all over the town, where the joy at the 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


147 


late Vicar’s rehabilitated character was great; and, as the clock bell 
struck, it was no uncommon thing for the passing mariners to say, 
“There goes ‘Manley;’ he’s striking eleven, he is.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

CAMBERWELL LIFE. 

Mr. Leslie was passing along the top of the cliffs one day when 
he met Ethel Hatton. Now, he had always felt a great degree of in- 
dignation, as far as she was concerned ; and, seeing how apparently 
indifferent she was looking, he decided that she was not at all feeling 
recent events as she ought. 

He joined her, and made a hasty resolution that, under pledge of 
absolute secrecy, he would tell her the whole story. ‘ ‘ She isn’t good 
enough for him,” he thought, “but, who knows, if the truth is told, 
whether one day they might not make it up between them, should he 
ever return from this missionary business.” 

“ I want to speak to you about Mr. Manley, Miss Ethel,” he said, 
with some degree of asperity. And then, on her giving her word 
that she would reveal the circumstances to no one, he told her the 
entire history of Mr. and Mrs. Carter. 

She listened in silence, her color coming and going. 

“Mr. Leslie,” she said, when he had finished, “if you wished to 
bring my unhappiness still more closely home to me, you have suc- 
ceeded. Still, I am very glad to know the real circumstances ;” and, 
with a bow, she left him. 

She took the cliff-path and walked on towards the Cove, then, 
changing her mind, she crossed the high road and entered the well- 
remembered wood. On this sweet spring day the wood was deli- 
cious; but she heeded no outward circumstances, she felt utterly 
crushed by her grief and regret. “ O Phil!” she exclaimed, “ if you 
would only come back to me, I do not think there would be any way 
too hard for me to show my love to you.” But she knew that he 
would not come back, or even if by any chance he should return to 
the place, she alone out of every one might not welcome him. She 
was sure that every one else would receive him with joy and acclama- 
tion — all except the one woman who loved him better than all the 
world. 

Then she began to wonder what she could do to prove that she 
repented of her past want of trust in him. If any course of action 
could be discovered, she would gladly fulfil it. To some minds there 
is a marvellous attraction in the idea of expiatory religion ; Ethel’s 
was one of them. She would then have joined the Church of Rome, 
and have spent her time in prayer and penance, if she could have be- 
lieved in that church. But she did not believe in it; and she was 
also aware that Mr. Manley, though he judged neither creed nor sect, 
personally had but little faith in it. In addition, she remembered 


148 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEAVFORTH. 


Ilow continuously lie had urged on his hearers the prior claims of 
home duties, and how wrong it was in his sight to forsake these for 
sentimental claims. If she would please him, she must not then seek 
for outside duties, unless they should be sent her. But she was very 
wretched. Her home occupations were not suflBcient to engross her, 
and although she still visited her district, and went to church, this 
latter recalled Mr. Manley so strongly to her mind that, very often, in- 
stead of attending to the service, she was simply lost in thoughts of 
him and his whereabouts. But now a call for outside work arose most 
unexpectedly. 

There was living in London a sister of her father’s, a cold, dis- 
agreeable, and narrow-minded woman. None of the family had seen 
her for some years; the Admiral never went to town, Mrs. Parker 
never went to Newforth. She had three young children, whom 
none of the Hattons had ever seen. One morning in this spring a 
letter arrived from Mrs. Parker’s doctor, saying that she had had a 
stroke of paralysis, and, as she seemed to have neither relations nor 
intimate friends, he wished to know what was to be done. 

Admiral Hatton at once went to London to look into the state of 
affairs. On his return he said that his sister had recovered her 
speech, but was very helpless still. The house was in the greatest 
disorder, and she greatly wished that Gertrude or Ethel might go to 
live with her for a time to keep house ; but that, he said, he had told 
her was out of the question. 

Ethel listened attentively, and thought that surely this was the call 
for which she had been waiting. 

“I will go, father,” she said. 

“Nonsense,” returned the Admiral; “it’s not a fit house for you 
to go to, all at sixes and sevens! and in such a neighborhood, toor 

“ Some one ought to go,” she replied. “You say Aunt Marion is 
too poor to engage a nurse. Of course, mother cannot leave you and 
the house; Gertrude cannot go, on account of Harry; while I,” she 
added, sadly, “have no one who particularly wants me.” 

Some argument ensued. Admiral Hatton was very much against 
her going. His sister had married beneath her, and, although her 
husband was now dead, he could not overcome his dislike to the en- 
tire connection. 

“ One of my daughters to go to a hole of a place in Camberwell,” 
he said, ‘ ‘ where there will be neither a breath of fresh air, nor society 
nor even decent comfort!” 

“I shall not go for the sake of enjoying myself,” said Ethel. “ I 
suppose it is quite certain that Aunt Marion cannot be left alone and 
that some one must go. Why not I as well as any one else?” 

“You are not strong enough,” he urged. But Ethel declared that 
she was stronger than she looked. 

“I really am afraid that she must go, ” now said her mother. ‘ ‘ She 
is anxious to do so, and she can but return should the work prove too 
heavy for her. I do not see else what is to become of your sister ” 

So, after some argument, it was arranged, and Ethel bade farewell 
to Newforth for a time. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


149 


It was not without reason that Admiral Hatton described his sister’s 
house as “ a hole of a place.” 

It was one of a small, dingy row, in a shabby, unfrequented street. 
There was no traffic to speak of in it, but none the less was there no 
fresh air. 

Now that the summer was approaching, the heat was great, the air 
was heavy and misty; and, even on the day of her coming, Ethel 
pined for the fresh sea air. 

On her arrival, her heart had sunk within her. On leaving the cab 
which brought her, she had noted the limp, drabby muslin curtains 
that hung from what was called the drawing-room windows. But 
what a drawing-room ! Their own was shabby, but it was not preten- 
tious ; it was also large, and always tilled with flowers and books, and 
little trifles of ladies’ work, and so on. Here a gaudy-patterned car- 
pet adorned the floor, imitation wax flowers and fruit abounded, the 
chintz furniture was torn, and large but vilely executed pictures hung 
on the walls. The children’s toys were scattered about the room, the 
antimacassars (crochet-work antimacassars) hung awry. 

The slovenly maid-of-all-work said she would call the children. 
Down they came, pell-mell, helter-skelter, and rushed up to kiss her. 
Their mouths were very dirty, their hair in frightful disorder. Ethel 
smiled faintly, and tried to look as if she were glad to see them. Alas ! 
she was not glad. She took out her handkerchief and surreptitiously 
wiped off the mark of their sticky lips from her cheek. There were 
three children — Georgina, aged twelve; Robert, aged ten; and Made- 
line, aged eight. 

A message came down that Mrs. Parker would be glad to see Ethel. 
She went into an untidy passage, the oilcloth frayed out on either 
side, and up a very shabbily carpeted staircase. Her aunt’s room was 
on the flrst landing Here the same untidiness and squalor prevailed. 

Mrs. Parker was sitting up in bed. She was a woman of forty-flve, 
but looked older. Her face was withered, and drawn with pain ; her 
eyes gleamed from deep hollows beneath her brows; her whole ap- 
pearance was forbidding. 

Ethel smiled, and asked her how she was. She began to talk about 
her own ailments, and kept her niece standing beside her for fully 
half an hour, without even asking her to take off her hat, or have 
some refreshment after her journey. 

Ethel felt as if she could have dropped before the conversation was 
over, her energy being greater than her strength. She would have 
taken a chair, but on every one there was a pile of clothes, books, and 
other articles, which she feared to disturb. At last she was dismissed, 
and went to her room. But oh, how she hated her room ! A narrow, 
sloping-roofed attic, in which, except in the centre, she had barely 
room to stand upright. The window was simply a skylight in the 
roof, so that view of any sort there was none. The sun shone on the 
slates, making the heat of the room intense; besides, a general air of 
stuffiness pervaded the mattress and bedding— it was like musty straw. 

The toilet arrangements w^ere exceedingly primitive— no dressing- 
table, a small looking-glass hung on the wall, a washstand, one chair. 


150 


THE BACHELOR ^T[CAR OF NEWFORTH. 


and a tiny cupboard, for clothes, completed the furniture. Now, 
both Gertrude and Ethel Hatton had always been exceedingly dainty 
as to their rooms. They were prettily ornamented with simple 
contrivances — flowers, seaweeds, small knick-knacks, and were the 
pleasantest rooms in the house. Here there was barely space for 
Ethel’s trunks. She gave a sigh, and prepared to change her travel- 
ling-dress; but before she had time to unbutton it, her door was burst 
open by Miss Georgina, who exclaimed : 

“Ethel, tea is ready, and ma says you’re not to keep it waiting, 
but are to come at once.” 

In the underground dining-room, next the kitchen, tea was laid. 
The tablecloth was certainly not clean; a very common, ill-matched 
tea-set was on the tray, a stale loaf and a pat of mry London butter on 
the table. 

“You must cut some bread-and-butter for us,” said Georgina; 
‘ ‘ we are hungry. ” 

Ethel did so. 

Before she had time to pour out the tea, the pile of bread-and-but- 
ter had'disappeared, and she was ordered to cut another. 

• “I wish to have some tea first,” she said. “You must wait a 
minute or two.” 

‘ ‘ Ma said you were to do what we told you, ” remarked Madeline ; 
“she said so last night.” 

Ethel ignored the remark. 

“ And who sees that your mother has her tea?” she asked. 

“Jane generally takes it, but after this ma said you must. She 
has thin bread-and-butter; you had better cut it now, and mind it’s 
cut nicely.” 

Ethel cut a slice or two, but she had never been accustomed to 
cut bread-and-butter; she was tired, and the knife slipped. It was 
scarcely a success. Such as it was, however, she sent it up by Jane. 

“After this, I should think you might take up your mother’s tea, 
Georgina,” she said. 

“Oh, no,” returned Georgina; “I’m sure I can’t; you must.” 

Down came Jane. 

“Missus says this bread-and-butter won’t do; you must cut some 
more. Miss Hatton.” 

Ethel obeyed, this time with better success. Her own tea was now 
quite cold, the unwonted fatigue had given her a racking headache, 
and she could not eat a morsel. 

As soon as the meal was ended she was told her aunt wanted her, 
and on her entrance she was ordered to put the room to rights— no 
easy task— and, after that, to attend to her aunt’s wants for the night, 
fetch her supper, light the gas, and so on. 

“ You see, Ethel,” she explained, “as you have come instead of a 
nurse, you must do a nurse’s work and a niece’s work, too. It can’t 
be two ways. You can’t be a flue lady-visitor, and a useful person at 
the same time. ” 

Ethel replied that she had no wish to be a fine lady- visitor, that she 
was quite prepared to help as much as lay in her power. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


151 


“Very well,” returned her aunt, “that’s very satisfactory; now I 
sha’n’t mind asking’ you to do anything.” 

It occurred to Ethel that she had not been troubled with many 
scruples before, but she said nothing. 

“You must be up at six every morning, and help Jane,” was her 
aunt’s parting salutation, “because there are the children to see to, 
and my breakfast to get early, and other things; and since Jane has 
had no one to look after her, she has always been late.” 

Punctually at six the next morning Ethel came down. The night 
before she had held a long consultation with herself as to her duty, 
and had resolved that she would make every task imposed on her her 
duty — first, because it was right; and, secondly, but much easier 
reason, because it would prove her repentance to Phil. With this 
idea in her mind, she thought nothing would be too hard to bear. 
She attended to her aunt, made her morning meal as tempting as 
might be, dressed little Madeline, and then sat down to breakfast. 
The scene of the evening before was in a great measure repeated, with 
the additional vexation of seeing Robert’s greasy fingers imprinted on 
her fresh morning-dress. 

“Do you not go to school?” she asked at length, longing to be free 
from them for an hour or two. 

“No,”,replied Georgina; “since ma has been ill, we haven’t been 
able to afford it. She says you have had a good education, and you 
must teach us.” 

“I?” echoed Ethel, faintly, and then she resolved that this heavy 
and unexpected duty she would fulfil to the best of her ability. She 
told the children to bring their books. They did so — old, shabby 
books most of them, and so dirty; Ethel put a corner of her pocket- 
handkerchief between the pages and her fingers while touching them. 
She endeavored to examine the children as to what they already 
knew, but the examination ended abruptly, in consequence of a fight ^ 
between Robert and Madeline. Unlike Mr. Manley, who could tame * 
any child in a few minutes, she did not take to children, and was 
entirely at a loss as to how to amuse or interest them. But duty seem- 
ing to demand that they should receive two hours’ instruction, she 
accordingly gave it; on dismissing them, to be met by Jane, with the 
message that missus couldn’t think why she hadn’t been up to her 
long ago. 

She went up and listened to a catalogue of grievances concerning 
Jane. And then she gave the children their dinner, which dinner 
was nothing but a scramble, and sat down in the afternoon to mend 
their clothes, having to run up and down stairs whenever her aunt’s 
bell rang. By ten o’clock she was so tired she scarcely knew how to 
undress; but she determined to continue her self-appointed duty— 
her plain duty. 

The round of one day was the round of every day. She was sent 
here, there, and everywhere— out with the children, on errands to 
shops to carry home grocery or other edible parcels, and sometimes 
was compelled to go messages to the doctor after dark. Sometimes, 
when sent by her aunt in the train on some errand, she would look 


152 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


from the window down into the crowded, narrow, foul streets; would 
remark the dismal little houses, the wretched strips of garden in 
which there were always clothes hanging out to dry, the miserable, 
wicked-looking women and men hanging about the filthy courts, and 
her heart would sicken as she thought of what their lives were. As 
for the finer parts of London, she never went to them. With her 
aunt she had neither society nor amusement ; there was only one un- 
ceasing round of work. But she bore it bravely, trying her hardest to 
improve the untidy house, to put up with her aunb’s temper, to sustain 
the many tasks set her, saying the while, “ It is what Phil would wish 
me to do; he would say I was right.” 

In her letters home she did not detail her discomfort. She knew, 
had she done so, that she would not have been allowed to remain a 
day. She made her accounts as brief as possible, enlarging princi- 
pally on the news received from home. She was not well, but 
although she looked pale, and longed for the sea, she was not ill, and 
resolved she would not give in. 

Then one day, in the midst of her uncongenial toil, she received a 
letter from her sister — a letter which caused her heart to beat and 
her cheeks to burn; a letter that made her wonder how such news 
could be true. It said that Mr. Manley was coming at once to Eng- 
land and — more. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

INVITATION TO RETURN. 

Before Mr. Manley received the bundle of letters from Newforth, 
he had held much conversation with Mr. Yorke as to his probable 
prospects. Both w^ere agreed it was out of the question to go on 
with the mission work. 

“ I knew it wouldn’t do, Phil,” said Yorke; “the whole thing is a 
mistake, which, of course, you see now.” 

“But I do not see it,” returned Mr. Manley, promptly. “My 
w^ork was a failure, I grant you, because I was wrong in continuing 
there alone ; but with efficient help, time, and patience, I see reason- 
able grounds for hoping that the children might eventually be 
trained into something very different. I would try it again myself 
had not the climate and various things affected my health so terribly; 
and although I am quite strong now, I scarcely think I am justified 
in running so much risk again — at all events, not just yet. ” 

Yorke gave a slight shrug. 

“I dare say we can manage anything, if it is continued long- 
enough. After the whole of your life has been worn out, perhaps 
two or three children will have learned their letters.” 

Mr. Manley laughed. 

“ No, no ; I won’t allow that. I am not at all sure that I shall not 
try again one of these days; I don’t like to be beaten.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFOKTII. 15,3 

Now, when the letters from England arrived, Mr, Manley was much 
moved; for they contained no less startling news than that every- 
one in Newforth was delighted and gratified to hear the true story 
of Mr. Manley’s visits to the Cove, that they were grieved and dis- 
tressed to think how greatly they had wronged him, and, with one 
accord, they begged him to return to them. 

The facts were these: Mr. Rowen was beginning to find the 
parish too much for him. The ladies alone were too much; but 
when joined to them there were the church- wardens, and the organist, 
and the choir, and the verger, and the mayor (who would put in his 
word now), and the seat-liolders — these combined influences were 
driving the persecuted Vicar to the verge of distraction. He bore 
up as long as he could, feebly endeavoring to combat the outside 
public, but succumbing entirely as far as his own household was 
concerned, his cook having long since ruled him with a rod of iron, 
when, all of a sudden, an idea struck him, so startling in itself that 
he remained lost in contemplation of his own magnanimity. He 
would resign the living to Mr. Manley, and wish him joy of it! The 

living was in the gift of the Bishop of W , who, he felt sure, 

would gladly sanction the exchange. 

This proved to be the case. The bishop expressed his willingness 
to consent^ under the circumstances, and added a few graceful words 
as to the kindness of Mr. Rowen in suffering this reparation to be 
made to one who had so long and so unjustly suffered. But had he 
said all that was in his mind, he would have added that on his part 
he would be delighted to see the exchange made, Mr. Manley being a 
man after his own heart, which Mr, Rowen was not. However, the 
bishop was a man of tact; he reserved his opinion. 

It could, however, scarcely have been flattering to Mr. Rowen to 
have observed the unconcealed delight of his congregation on hear- 
ing that he was going to leave them. 

“Oh, be joyful!” said Mr. Leslie, privately. 

“ Scrumptiously scrumptious,” said Miss Hatton. 

For that Mr. Mauley would accept the living was received as a 
matter of course by every one; but, had they only known it, Mr. 
Manley had not the smallest intention of accepting the living. 

“It is quite out of the question,” he said to himself. “I should 
not think of returningtoNewforth,although lamvery glad they know 
the truth, and that I am not quite the villain they took me for.” 
For of his sister’s visit he had heard few particulars, and had no idea 
of the painful revelations that she had made to Mr. Leslie. 

The request had been a very public one, as befitted the congrega- 
tion, seeing that the condemnation had been so very public. Mr. 
Rowen had written, the mayor had written, the church-wardens had 
written ; but, more than this, there was a huge petition sent (at Mr. 
Leslie’s instigation), signed by the organist and choir and every seat- 
holder in the church, begging him to return; and not only signed by 
them, but by the poor of the parish also. It was a huge packet, 
and contained hundreds of signatures. He was to telegraph his 
reply. 


154 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

jVIr, Manley was greatly touched, as also was Mr. Yorke. 

“Phil,” he said, very gravely, “I am more delighted than I can 
tell you. There is only one drawback to my joy; that we shall lose 
you.” 

“I shall go to England, now that my character” — he said this 
word with some bitterness — “is restored to me; but I shall certainly 
not go to Newforth. I do not think it would be at all advisable.” 

“Have you a prospect of any other living?” asked Yorke. 

“Not the slightest; and, forasmuch as livings do not grow on 
trees,” he added, with a smile, “I must take a curacy, for curacies 
are not hard to get. ” 

But though he spoke bravely, and with his old determined air, he 
knew that to a man who had been a vicar this would be a very bit- 
ter pill to swallow. It was not that he felt it derogatory to him. 
Since that night in the bush the strange humility had never left him ; 
he felt that to be a curate was quite sufficient honor; but he knew 
full well that there are vicars and vicars, and to work with one who 
was careless or indifferent or inferior would be a sharp trial to him. 
He had always been so completely master when he was Vicar, that 
he was now fully prepared to serve; he said this to himself with all 
the humility of a proud man. 

“Take a curacy, Phil?” said Yorke. “Nonsense! I have no 
doubt you were a most excellent curate in your time, but your day 
for that has gone by. That’s the worst of you parsons,” he added, 
with a laugh, ‘ ‘ you must be masters. AVhy, if you stayed here much 
longer, 1 shouldn’t know it was my house; they all come to you now 
instead of me.” 

Mr. Manley laughed heartily. 

‘ ‘ This is the first time it has ever occurred to me or to any one else 
that you were not master. It is high time I should go, I think.” 

“ Seriously, though,” said Yorke, “why not take the living? You' 
were happy there, and much beloved; if you return, you will be- 
come a sort of hero. If you had any better prospect, I would not 
urge you; but I can’t bear the idea of your living on a hundred a 
year. ” 

“Perhaps I might get a hundred and fifty,” said Mr. Manley, 
laughing. “ I think I am worth it.” 

Some argument then ensued, but Mr. Manley was firm. He at 
once prepared his telegram, which was to the effect that, though 
greatly gratified by their kind words and invitation to return to 
them, he thought it best for both parties that he should not do so. 
He would write full particulars. This he sent, having previously 
shown it to Yorke; but he was quite unaware that the latter supple- 
mented it with a private one of his own to Mr. Leslie, which said, 
“ Don’t take ‘ No ’ for an answer. I think he will come, if you try 
again.” 

The subject of Mr. Manley’s means was troubling Yorke greatly. 
As for the loan from Mr. Philpot, that had long since been repaid, 
but doing so had left INIr. Manley with next to nothing. Yorke had 
begged him to accept a loan of two hundred pounds some time be- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


155 


fore, and had seemed so much hurt when he refused, that, as usual, 
he sacrificed his own inclination and took it. 

“I am not going to live on you forever,” he said, when the sub- 
ject of his leaving was mooted. 

“Live on me?” said Yorke. “ What an extraordinary way some 
people have of putting things, Phil. Now, if I had been asked, I 
should have said that a most distinguished and talented clergyman 
had done me the honor of becoming my private chaplain, and was 
too proud to accept a penny for his services.” 

“ I shall repay you as soon as I get to England,” Mr. Manley said, 
with reference to the loan. “I can raise the money very well.” 
He meant, by selling a reversion that was in his possession. 

“If you repay me before you have a living, I shall be seriously 
hurt,” said Yorke. “What a proud fellow you are, Phil!” (who 
himself, on some points, was one of the proudest men that ever lived). 
“But, when you have a living,” he added, laughing, “I’ll come 
down on you, and sell up every stick and stone if I don’t get my 
money.” 

That night, when Mr. Manley was left alone, he took out all the 
letters he had received, with a deep feeling of thankfulness. He had 
suffered more than any one had been aware of in the imputations 
cast on him ; he knew that that evening, when he had stood on the 
platform of the Town Hall to defend himself publicly, had been so 
exquisitely painful that the memory would never be forgotten by 
him; but he did not think it befitting his dignity that he should be 
turned out at one time and fetched back at another. A weighty 
reason with him also was that Ethel Hatton still lived in the place. 
True, he had overcome, he thought, much of his bitterness against 
her, but he would still gladly avoid her. 

He looked again at the letters. There was Mr. Rowen’s, written 
in a somewhat condescending spirit — that Mr. Manley could not fail to 
observe — but well-meant, on the whole. His jubilation at the prospect 
of escaping from Newforth could not be contained, coincident with 
a certain amount of self-gratulation as to his own goodness in 
making the offer, which was barely concealed. As Mr. Manley very 
well knew, he said, he had ample means of his own without a living 
at all ; but he sliould apply to the bishop for some small living in the 
country where there were none but farmers and countrymen, and — 
this with huge dashes — “he hoped he should get away from the 
icomen, and never a lady again.” 

IVIr. Leslie’s letter was very hearty and pressing; the letter of a true 
friend. 

Admiral Hatton’s was short, and written with a certain amount of 
unconscious reluctance. He began thus: 

‘ ‘ Now, you know, Manley, you needn’t bear malice. I was wrong, 
and you were right. Suppose you let bygones be bygones, and come 
back to us. We will all give you a hearty welcome. At the same 
time, I do think you might have given us a hint that the lady was 
your sister, but, as I laid bafort, let bygones be bygones, and come 
back. ” 


156 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


As Mr. Manley put the letter down he gave a sigh, and could not 
but remember — setting his lips sternly as he did so — that he had been 
ordered out of Admiral Hatton’s house on the last occasion when he 
had spoken to him, except purely on business. 

The mayor’s letter was well-intentioned and honest, though scarcely 
soothing: 

“My Dear Sir,” it said — “At one time we all thought you were 
a rascal, and now we know you are not. We hope you will come 
back; we all hope so. I’m not ashamed to own it when I’ve been 
wrong, and Mr. Yorke was quite right when he said it was a bad 
day for Newforth when you was turned out. So, hoping this will 
find you in health, as it leaves me at present, I am, sir, 

“Your obedient servant. The Mayor of Newforth.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

EUREKA. 

The news that Mr. Manley would not return was received in New- 
forth with dismay. What was to be done? Every one was decided 
on one point, and that was that he must return; that they could not 
do without him. His refusal enhanced his marketable value ten- 
fold. Fortunately, they had Mr. Yorke’s telegram to fall back on, 
and a consultation was immediately held as to what was to be tele- 
graphed in reply. 

Mr. Leslie felt very disheartened. He knew Mr. Manley to be so 
thoroughly determined, and so decidedly a man of his word, that he 
could not believe that he would alter his mind. He thought over 
the subject most anxiously. One suggested one thing, one another. 
“Tell him he must,'' said one; “ Beg and entreat him,” said another; 
and a babel of confusion ensued. 

At last Mr. Leslie threw his hat up in the air, and, shouting 
“ Eureka,” gave a jump like a schoolboy. 

“What in the world is the matter?” asked his friends. 

“I will bet any one in this room a sovereign that my telegram 
will fetch him !” 

“ What is it?” asked every one. 

But Mr. Leslie would not impart his intelligence at once. 

“You have all been thinking,” he said, “ that Mr. Manley was like 
the dog in the child’s poetry : 

‘ The dog will come when he is called, 

The cat will walk away.’ 

But I knew that he was neither like the cat nor the dog. This is 
the telegram we will send, putting it to his Christianity : ‘ If you do 
not return to us, we shall know that we have injured you too greatly, 
and that you have not forgiven us.’ If that doesn’t do it, nothing 
will, /have baited the hook, and I will land Mr. Manley.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


157 


His proposal was received with acclarnatiou, and the mayor said 
he would pay for the telegram out of his own pocket. 

Miss Hatton met Mr. Leslie soon after the meeting, and extracted 
from him the fullest particulars. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, joyfully; “it will be like old times to get 
ihe Vicar back again. Of course, if you remember, he always 
preached on Sunday morning; but Ethel and I used to go in the even- 
ing, with the exciting feeling of drawing tickets out of a lottery. If 
]VIr. Rowen entered the reading-desk, we knew it was all right, that 
the Vicar would preach, and we had drawn a prize; if the Vicar en- 
tered the reading-desk, we knew we had drawn a blank.” 

“It strikes me,” said Mr. Leslie, “that it’s lucky for you. Miss 
Hatton, that the Vicar never heard you say that. Wouldn't you have 
got a rowing, that’s all?” 

“I know I should,” she replied, laughing. “ I always was afraid 
of him, although I liked him so immensely. Now, Ethel took liber- 
ties that / shouldn’t have ventured on.” 

“Did she?” 

“ Yes. Isn’t it a pity their engagement should have been broken 
off.” 

“Perhaps it will come on again,” said Mr. Leslie; but Miss Hat- 
ton shook 'her head. 

“ How does Miss Ethel like London?” he asked. 

‘ ‘ She can't like living where she is, but she won’t come home. 
She has got hold of some notion that it is her duty. One of us must 
go up and see her before long; only I am so taken up with Harry, 
and neither my father nor mother have been well lately. Well, 
good-bye, and let me know the moment you hear any news.” 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

MR. MANLEY’S DECISION. 

The second telegram greatly astonished Mr. Manley. He took a 
day to reconsider his determination. The matter had now been put 
in a totally different light. Would it be right now to retain his 
pride? Would it be advisable? He was beginning to think it would 
not. They had put it on the plea of his showing he possessed the 
love of a Christian pastor towards them; on this ground he thought 
he ought to return. 

Yorke said not one word; he made up his mind that he would not. 
But at ten o’clock that night, when he was walking up and down 
the lawn, smoking, Mr. Manley joined him. 

“ Yorke,” he said, “I have decided to return to Newforth.” 

Yorke grasped his hand. “I am very glad to hear it, Phil,” he 
said, warmly. “ I am sure it is wise for you to do so.” 

mV. Manley decided that he would return without delay, by the 
next mail. 


158 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


After the great kindness shown him by Mr. Philpot and Mr. Groves 
at Campertown, he said he should like to see them before he started, 
on which Yorke immediately invited them over. On their arrival it 
transpired that they, too, would shortly visit England. 

“You must come and stay with me at my vicarage,” said Mr. 
Manley, warmly; “and although I shall never be able to repay your 
kindness to me, still I should very much like you to come and see 
me and my church.” 

They replied that they would make a point of doing so, that noth- 
ing would give them greater pleasure. 

It seemed so wonderful to Mr. Manley to say “my church,” “my 
living ” — he who, but yesterday, had been a wanderer on the face of 
the earth. The old life at Newforth came back to him, as if it were 
yesterday— this life which he had thought had been put away for- 
ever. 

“Do you know,” said Yorke to his wife, “that I don't wonder at 
a parson being sometimes spoiled by being made too much of. Now, 
look at Manley; when he returns he will receive quite an ovation. 
He will stand it right enough, but few men could. ” 

“ If Mr. Manley ever became conceited, or self-conscious,” said Mrs. 
Y orke, ‘ ‘ his entire charm would be gone. It is the absence of this 
which gives him so great an influence, which he would lose at once 
if he appreciated himself in the same way that other people do. 
Eloquent men, and so on, are plentiful enough ; a man without a 
vestige of conceit is quite a rarity.” 

“ Upon my word, young woman!” said her husband, with a laugh. 

“Oh,” she replied, brightly, “you may say what you will, but 
men are twice as conceited as women. I’m sure of it.” 

“I know a young lady who used to be always praising me” he 
returned, “and now she is surprised at finding any one is conceited.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE LOST PARCEL. 

Ethel Hatton continued her w^eary task with unflinching per- 
severance ; with greatly renewed hope, now that she had heard that 
Mr. Manley was coming back again. Some vague hope that he 
might hear of her, and think she was doing her duty, actuated her. 
Her life was dreadful to her, but custom had blunted the first keen 
feeling of disgust. Her aunt was now well enough to leave her 
room, and sit down-stairs during a portion of the day. She would 
not hear of Ethel leaving her; she said she could not do without her. 
But this was the only praise the girl received. Mrs. Parker found 
fault perpetually, and imposed the hardest tasks on her, without ever 
seeking to place any small means of enjoyment in her way. 

But to Ethel the hardest sacrifice of all had been to give up most 
of the church-going to which she had been accustomed for so long. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


159 


To hear any one say that it was a proof of goodness to go often to 
church greatly amazed her. To go to church appeared to her un- 
mixed enjoyment. Feeling thus, it was a hard trial to stay at home 
herself in order to permit others to attend; but she knew that Mr. 
Manley would have been the last person to advocate a selfish re- 
ligion, and that he would have told her it betokened far greater 
Christianity to stay than to go. Her thoughts were now perpetually 
with him. She lived in dreamland, ofttimes answering mechanicall}’^ 
when spoken to, and quite oblivious as to the events passing around 
her. Her aunt would often say, sharply, “ Do wake up, Ethel, and 
attend to your work!” And she would give a faint smile and pro- 
ceed with her irksome tasks. Of all these, teaching the children 
was the hardest and most uncongenial; she thought she had had 
enough of children for the remainder of her life. 

And now that Mr. Manley was fairly on his way home, an im- 
mense discussion took place as to what steps should be taken for his 
reception. For a wonder unanimity of feeling prevailed — viz., that 
no honor that could be paid him would be too great; furthermore, 
that it would be advisable to give a tangible proof of their satisfac- 
tion. But in what wa}^ could this best be done? Every one knew 
how proud a man Mr. Manley had been in one way, albeit so hum- 
ble in anbther. The point became one of some difficulty. That a 
banquet— a public banquet — should be given in his honor, and that 
the poor should be feasted, was easy enough, but how to get him to 
accept a personal present without wounding his pride? 

At last an idea occurred to them. The vicarage furniture had 
remained on with Mr. Bowen, but it was now very much the worse 
for wear : might they not refurnish the house, and represent to him 
that the furniture now went with the vicarage? He could not be 
affronted at that. So it was agreed on, and, with no deference 
whatever to the feelings of Mr. Bowen, who was to remain until Mr. 
Manley arrived, painters and paper-hangers were sent in, and the 
house was turned upside down. 

Captain Vincent was posted in the latest news, and one day went 
to Newfortii, accompanied by his wife. She at once called on Ad- 
miral and Mrs. Hatton, and asked if the church-wardens would al- 
low them, as a great favor, to undertake the burnishing of the Vicar’s 
study, on the understanding that their names were to be scrupulously 
concealed. The church- wardens graciously allowed this to be done, 
and Mrs. Vincent sent for a first-class ecclesiastical decorator, with 
whom she held a long conversation. 

All these details were written to Ethel in London. She thought 
sadly how, if she had not mistrusted Mr. Manley, she would have 
been installed into the vicarage, and how, most probably, if she had 
remained true to him, he would never have left the place at all — the 
mere fact of her faith in him would have spoken volumes. Then 
she thought of his noble life abroad, and how manfully he had borne 
his sufferings; for the story of the hardships he had undergone in 
the bush had been fully made known in a letter from Mr. Yorke to 
Captain Vincent, by whom the news had been freely circulated. 


160 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


A living had now been procured for Mr, Rowen — a country living, 
as he wished, where there were not above two hundred inhabitants, 
including those of the outlying cottages, and where, on his visit of 
inspection, he did not meet with a single person who, by any stretch 
of courtesy, could be called a lady. He had decided on leaving 
Newfortli the day before Mr. Manley arrived, he already haying been 
ordered to leave the vicarage while the furnishing was taking place, 
and stay with the Allens, who had invited him. He obeyed, though, 
among all the ladies, if there were one more than another whom he 
particularly detested, it was Mrs, Allen, 

It was as ■well that he should not remain to welcome Mr. Manlej^ 
for the joy evinced at the prospect of the latter’s return was alto- 
gether too much for flesh and blood to stand. Even the poor people, 
who had wheedled money out of him in cases where Mr. Manley 
would have steadily refused one penny, would say to him, with an 
air of odious satisfaction, “ Oh, sha'n't we be glad, sir, when the good 
gentleman returns,” and poor Mr, Rowen would retire disgusted. 

One day he was walking up and down the churchyard, when he 
saw a stout woman approach him— a homely-featured, red-faced 
woman. Instinctively he turned to flee, but she cut off his retreat, 
and stood facing him. It was Mrs. Stevens, from Fisherman’s Cove, 
but he did not recognize her, as he now visited the Cove but seldom. 
Her face was flushed and beaming with excitement. 

“Don’t go away, sir,” she said, hurriedly, as Mr. Rowen would 
have turned away. “ I have summat most important to tell ye.” 

He put his hand in his pocket, prepared to offer her a shilling if 
she would not go away without; for Mr. Rowen, by dint of being 
constantly worried, had completely lost the forbearance he had 
reall)’ displayed in Mr. Manley’s time. 

“What do you want?” he asked, 

“See here, sir,” she cried, displaying a large packet, most care- 
fully done up in a thick wrapper and sealed in a great many places; 
“this is what I have found.” 

Mr. Rowen took the packet from her, and examined it. It was 
addressed only “H. C.” He could make nothing of it. 

“Where did you find it?” he asked, without feeling any interest 
in the subject. 

“You remember, of course, sir,” she began, volubly, “the lady 
and gentleman I had staying with me — for they was a lady and gen- 
tleman, although they was dressed common — that time when Mr. 
Manley came to see them so often, and all the talk was made, not 
knowin’ the lady was his sister. Well, sir, to-day, this very mornin’, 
I looked up, as I was a settin’ in the sitting-room, where they used 
to be, and I thinks to meself, ‘ Why not have a good turn-out?’ So I 
had a good turn-out, and I took up the carpet. Just about in the 
middle of the floor I sees a crack in the boards, so I thinks, thinks I, 
‘One of them there boards is loose,’ and I gives it a tread with my 
foot. You might have knocked me down with a feather, sir” — Mr. 
Ro-yven looked as if he greatly doubted that— “when, on my foot 
givin’ way, owin’ to the board ^oin’ down under me, I treads on 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEAVFORTH. 


161 


somethin’ soft, and sees a corner of this packet and pulls it out. So 
I up and says to meself, ‘ That was put there by my lodger.’ He 
was queer in his head at times, he was, and didn’t rightly know 
what he was a-doin’ of, though I will say that a nicer and more con- 
siderate lady never lived than she were. So then I says, ‘ I must 
take this to our Mr. Rowen to give to the Vicar ’’’—this to poor Mr. 
Rowen’s face, he, the Vicar of the parish, but acknowledged as such 
by no one! — “he can give it to his sister.” 

Mr. Rowen handled the parcel delicately, as if he feared it might 
contain dynamite — indeed, to tell the truth, some such notion had 
crossed his mind. 

He was still looking at it when Mr. Leslie went by. He told him 
the whole story; but before he had time to speak the final words Mr. 
Leslie had jumped on to the nearest flat tombstone, taken off his hat, 
and shouted, “Hurrah!” at the top of his voice. 

Mr. Rowen thought he was mad; he felt afraid to remain in his 
vicinity. Mrs. Stevens looked as if she shared his apprehensions. 

“Hurrah!” shouted Mr. Leslie again, this time leaping from the 
tombstone, and seizing the packet from Mr. Rowen’s bewildered 
touch, “ Hurrah, I say!” 

Then he turned to Mrs. Stevens, saying, ‘ ‘ Here is a sovereign for 
you, my good woman; and if the packet is what I think, you shall 
have ten pounds down.” 

Mrs. Stevens’s doubts as to his sanity were now completely re- 
moved. 

“Thank ’ee, sir; thank ’ee, kindly,” she said. 

“ And now, my good woman, take yourself off as fast as you like ” 
returned Mr. Leslie, “I want to talk to Mr. Rowen.” 

Mrs, Stevens departed, nothing loath. 

Then Mr. Leslie said that it was his opinion that the parcel con- 
tained missing deeds and bonds of incalculable value, and announced 
his intention of going up to London, without an hour’s delay, for the 
purpose of depositing it in the bank whence the bonds had been 
missed; for even in his excitement Mr. Leslie did not say “stolen” 
to Mr. Rowen, 

But the coolness of this proceeding was a little too much even for 
Mr. Rowen. ‘ ‘ Excuse me, ” he said ; ‘ ‘ the parcel was placed in my 
custody, to give to Mr. Manley, and I decline to give it up.” 

“I beg your pardon,” returned Mr. Leslie, who was already some 
steps down the road, “but possession is nine points of the law, you 
know, and I can’t give this up. You can have me up for felony, if 
you like,” he shouted, as he departed. 

Mr. Rowen felt extremely angry, which was scarcely to be won- 
dered at, 

“I should like to have seen him take it from Manley” he, ejacu- 
lated, wrathfully. 

“And indeed so should I,” put in a voice — that of Miss Hatton, 
who had been an amused and unseen observer of the latter portion 
of the scene; “but you are not Mr. Manley, you know, and never 
will be.” 


11 


162 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Goo^ morning said Mr. Rowen, and turned into the vicarage. 

It turned out as Mr. Leslie had expected. An enormous amount 
of property had been recovered, and his losses were now almost made 
good. He moved without delay into his former house, which was 
fortunately empty, and resumed his former prosperity. But on the 
same day the bonds were found he wrote a very kind letter to Mrs. 
Carter, or Reginald, as she must now be called, telling her all the cir- 
cumstances, and adding that he was very glad he had dismissed all 
rancor from his mind before this event. 

“ The Vicar will be glad of this,” he said; for Mr. Manley was now 
“ the Vicar ” with every one. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

A FORTUNE. 

Mr. Manley arrived in England after a somewhat uneventful pas- 
sage. On the voyage he had felt a calm, subdued sense of satisfac- 
tion at returning, but no elation. Joy seemed to have turned her 
back on him forever. He proceeded at once to London, and there a 
surprise awaited him. 

The aunt with whom his sister had lived had lately died, leaving 
him the whole of her fortune, which was considerable. There was 
a clause in the will stating that out of this money he was to pay his 
sister £300 a year, in quarterly payments, as, had she money of her 
own, she would certainly try to make it over to her late husband’s 
creditors. To apply any portion of her income for this purpose was 
expressly forbidden in the will, and, should she marry again, a cer- 
tain sum of money was to be placed in trust for her, in lieu of the 
quarterly payments. Mr. Manley’s own portion amounted to over 
£1000 a year. He was very pleased, for he had never professed to 
undervalue money. He at once thought of the good he could do, 
and how greatly his hands would be strengthened. “ I thank God,” 
he said. 

After a day or two spent at the Charing Cross Hotel, his sister 
came to see him. She rejoiced over his safe return, and cried in his 
arms. They had so much to tell one another, that it was late in the 
night before they separated. 

He asked if she would come and live with him at Newforth, but 
she replied, “ No;” that she considered a clergyman was better with- 
out any lady in his house, unless it were his wife. 

“You see, Phil,” she said, “you would direct your wife what to 
do, and she would do it ; your tastes and sympathies would run in 
common. But however much a man may like his sister — and we 
love one another very dearly, Phil — it cannot be the same; their very 
similarity of disposition may cause their tastes to clash. And there 
are other reasons also. Of course, you ought to be master in your 
own house — ” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


163 


“Of course I ought, ’’put in Mr. Manley. 

“And I, on the other hand, have been accustomed to being mis- 
tress. I feel we should be better apart.” 

“ I will not urge you on this point; you shall entirely consult your 
own inclinations,” he said, very kindly; “but you know perfectly 
well that I shall always give you a hearty welcome whenever you 
like to come.” 

“lam sure of that, Phil,” she replied, earnestly; and then, in a few 
broken words, she told him how deeply she grieved for all the misery 
she and her husband had brought him, and how that every day of 
her life she prayed that he might be recompensed in this world, and 
have love and happiness restored to him. 

“ I am happy,” he replied, gravely. 

“Ah, Phil, dear!” she said, putting her hand on his face, “it is 
earthly happiness you want now; I pray that you may have it. I 
cannot bear to think of you living solitary, with no one to see to those 
small comforts which no one but a wife ever thinks of, and to pay 
you those small attentions which would only irritate you from any 
but a wife. I want you not only to be gravely happy; I want you 
to be joyful, as you used to be.” 

'"That I 'Shall never be again,” he returned; “I cannot feel joyful 
any more. Thankful I do feel— very thankful, almost oppressed by 
the sense that my gifts are far greater than my deserts; but as to joy, 
that has fled forever. ” 

“But why SO, Phil?” asked his sister, in concern; “you are but a 
young man still — strong, athletic, young in your appreciation of life, 
and in many other ways. I cannot see why happiness should not be 
in store for you yet. Your cheeks look hollow still, dear; you should 
not have that patient, thoughtful look in your eyes— your eyes which 
used to glow and sparkle and dance. Tell me, can you and Ethel 
never be reconciled?” 

He shook his head, saying, “I would prefer not to speak of her.” 

Mrs. Reginald was to remain in London for the present, Mr. Man- 
ley was to go to Newforth the next day. He received a letter in the 
evening from Mr. Leslie, saying he hoped the vicarage would be 
ready ; but, if not, they would gladly put him up. The fact was that 
the preparations at the vicarage were so many that there was barely 
time to conclude them all. 

The news of the restoration of the missing bonds had greatly 
cheered J^Ir. Manley. He began to feel that surely, though slowly, 
things were righting themselves; but when his sister had told him of 
Mr. Leslie’s generous kindness, and of his forgiveness of her husband, 
he w'as greatly touched, and began to hope that all his labor in New- 
forth had not been in vain. 


164 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

HIS ARRIVAL. 

The Vicar walked from the hotel to Charing Cross station, which 
adjoins, carrying his handbag; his luggage was large in quantity, 
and would follow him. He took a third-class ticket — indeed, he gen- 
erally travelled third-class. Possessing all the latent pride of a man 
who knows that he cannot be taken for other than a gentleman, l;e 
was supremely careless as to his surroundings in travel; he actually 
preferred third-class, owing to the different company it brought him 
among, he being a profound student of human nature. 

On this occasion he had the carriage to himself. He was glad of 
this, as he wanted to pursue the train of his reflections. It seemed 
to him but yesterday that he had come to Newforth, a stranger, un- 
knowing what would await him. He thought of the kindly manner 
in which people had held out a friendly hand to him, of the regard 
they had shown him. And then he thought of her who had shown 
him more than regard, who had assured him. of her unchangeable af- 
fection; but who, in the time of his troubles, had failed him. This 
wound was very deep still; it did not heal, it could not heal. Again 
recurred to his mind the verse, never heard without his thoughts con- 
necting it with Ethel: “It was not an open enemy that hath done 
me this dishonor, then I could have borne it; but it was thou, mine 
own familiar friend, in whom I trusted.” His heart was very sore 
still. He thought of how he should meet her. He had said he would 
not return to Newforth, and one reason, and that a weighty one, had 
been because she was there; but, now that he was returning, how 
should he treat her? Should he ignore her, should he treat her wdth 
disdain, or should he comport himself towards her in all respects as 
if she were any other young lady? He would do the last; he knew 
his pride would carry him through. That she had loved him he had 
never doubted — probably she loved him still ; but oh, what was the 
worth of such love? It had been weighed in the balance, and found 
wanting. 

Then he thought of the season in which his people had doubted 
him, had believed evil of him, had been on the point of appealing to 
his bishop, had been glad when, notwithstanding all he had done for 
them, they had known he w'as going. On this point he still felt some 
slight bitterness, in spite of the ample reparation they had made. 
Well, he would labor among them as before, seeking no thanks; he 
would go about as before. They had probably, many of them, for- 
gotten both him and his teaching; but he would endeavor not to bo 
discouraged, he would begin all over again. He wondered if they 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


165 


had kept up any of the societies he had formed, the works he had in- 
augurated— above all, whether he should find that the church had 
been cared for in his absence ; he thought he would walk quietly 
round, and ascertain before going home. But was he to go home? 
He remembered Mr. Leslie’s letter: “ If the vicarage is not in order, 
which we will see about, we will put you up.” He certainly would 
go to the vicarage, if it were possible to do so; he wanted to be quiet 
before beginning his uphill task for the second time. 

And then he thought about the journey he had taken on leaving 
Newforth — as he had thought forever — of his sadness of heart on 
the voyage out to Australia; and then of that time of hardest toil, 
and to all appearance fruitless toil, among the aborigines; most of 
all, of that time when he had lain down under the midnight sky, to 
die, as he believed. Was he a wiser man? he asked himself; if not, 
he was certainly a sadder. No, he could not feel joyful in his home- 
coming. 

He caught sight of the sea. There it was, in the distance, blue and 
sparkling. And then he remembered the morning, soon after his first 
arrival, when, in vigorous health and in joyousness of heart, he had 
swam the race round the farther buoy with Lieutenant Campbell, 
and had beaten him easily. As the train slackened its speed he ob- 
served that the ships in the harbor were dressed; he supposed it was 
the wedding-day of one of the captains. What was going on? Sure- 
ly there was a great crowd on the platform ; eager faces looking into 
all the first-class carriages in the middle, and withdrawing in disap- 
pointment. Evidently some one of importance was expected. 

IVIr. Manley thought he would wait until most of the people had 
dispersed. He sat quietly on in his corner, till a voice shouted at 
the door of his carriage, ''Here he is!” and he found himself taken 
possession of, and almost dragged out and shaken hands with by ev- 
ery one, until he thought he could shake hands no longer. The 
heartiest words of welcome were given him, the most beaming smiles. 
He made his w\ay, still carrying his bag, in course of time to the en- 
trance to the station. 

But what was this? Here were the mayor and corporation drawn 
up to receive him— an honor that had never, within his memory, 
been done to any one save the Prince of Wales, on one occasion, and 
their county member. The mayor advanced and welcomed him in 
the name of the town. The Vicar smiled with the same smile as of 
old, and felt he could not trust himself to say much. And then he 
was told to enter a very handsome carriage, drawn by four horses, 
as he was to be driven through the town. Scarcely had he seated 
liimself when he beheld the brass band— the identical band that in 
the old times had excruciated his ears. No sooner had the carriage 
begun to move than the band commenced playing, “See the con- 
quering hero comes.” This was altogether too much for the Vicar, 
who was glad enough to relieve his feelings anyhow : he burst into 
a hearty laugh, which was taken up by all around. He was driven 
slowly, for crowds lined the streets. On every side a welcome met 
him. He bowed and smiled right and left, until a sound arrested 


166 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


bis attention: the bells of the parish church, his dearly loved church, 
rung out a peal, and then, although a smile was still on his lips, the 
tears were in his eyes. He told them afterwards he had never been 
so surprised in his life. 

He was to go to the vicarage, they told him ; but what did he see 
on entering the grounds? There, assembled on the lawn, were the 
widows he had visited in their affliction, some of the sick he had 
ministered unto, the fishermen he had talked with, the children he 
had taught. His poor people, his own people, were all there. On 
all sides arose voices from them. “Welcome home, sir;” “Glad to 
see ’ee, sir;” “God bless your reverence;” “Welcome, welcome!” 
in every variety of expression. 

Mr. Manley left the carriage, and stood on the top step of his 
house. 

“My dear friends,” he said, stretching out his hands — “my wry 
dear friends ” — and then he stopped, for the tears rolled down his 
cheeks. 

Mr. Leslie at once sprung up on the steps beside him, and, waving 
his hat, cried, “ Three cheers for the Vicar, and three times three,” 
which were given with acclamation. “You shall make your speech 
this evening,” said Mr. Leslie, “at the banquet.” 

And then the Vicar— called so by courtesy alone, at present, for 
he was not to be inducted for a week — the Vicar asked, what ban- 
quet, and was told there was to be one in his honor at eight that 
evening, at which a great many people would be present. 

Now concerning this same banquet there had been grand discus- 
sions. Every one of any importance in the town was to be present; 
but, further, there were to be people from out of the town. Captain 
Vincent had signified his intention of being present, and J\Ir. Fortes- 
cue, on hearing the news, said he would come down from London 
on purpose — that he liked Mr. Manley; but that, in addition, it would 
be just as good as any play to see the mayor and the provincials. 

But this did not satisfy Mrs. Vincent, She insisted that Lord Hil- 
ton ought to be invited ; that she was sure the mayor and the towns- 
I)eople would be only too glad to do so. 

Captain Vincent laughed. 

“That, my child, is likely enough; but Lord Hilton won’t be anx- 
ious to come. Mr. Manley, no doubt, is a very good parson, but it’s 
almost too much to expect Lord Hilton to welcome him.” 

“I will bet you a new dress, Rupert, that he will come if he is 
asked. We will drive over there now, and tell him about it.” 

“ I like that,” returned Captain Vincent. “What earthly good is 
a new dress to me? Well, I suppose we must go over. Upon my 
word, I am henpecked.” 

But, to Captain Vincent’s astonishment. Lord Hilton declared he 
would be delighted to go. 

“I’m not such an old man yet, Vincent,” he said, “that I can’t 
eat a good dinner; and I do like to see a wrong righted. I have 
heard about Mr. Manley from the bishop.” 

Now the Vicar would greatly have preferred to have spent the 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


167 


evening alone, but he knew this was out of the question. And then 
he was told that the poor people on the lawn were to have a feast 
out of doors— it being now August— in Mr. Leslie’s field, that even- 
ing at six, and that the Vicar, of course, must be present for a short 
time. 

He heard a dog bark, and his old and faithful favorite came rush- 
ing forward and jumped on him, frantic with delight. The dog had 
been given to Mr. Leslie, who now restored him to his former mas- 
ter. 

“I thank you, Leslie,” said the Vicar; “lam very glad to have 
him again.” 

At present he had not been able even to turn round, but had stood 
with his back to the front door. At the front door stood Mrs. Jon- 
son, her face beaming with smiles. The Vicar shook hands with 
her heartily, and said he was very glad indeed to see her. 

AVho could have believed, he thought, that, after an absence of 
nearly a year, so many things would be unchanged? A year? Per- 
haps to the people in Newforth it might seem a short time sinee he 
had left; but to Mm, who had undergone so much in the interim, it 
seemed as if ages had rolled over his head. 

And now Mr. Leslie approached him, with some slight hesitation, 
and told him that the house had been newly done up, and a little of 
the furniture altered, and that it was now to go with the vicarage. 

And, indeed, the house had been transformed. In place of worn 
carpets and dingy papers there were large squares of Axminster car- 
pet, and handsomely decorated walls; while everything, though per- 
fectly plain, was most thoroughly good. 

But when Mr. Manley entered his study, it astonished him. The 
ecclesiastical decorator and Mrs. Vincent, between them, had man- 
aged to satisfy his critical taste most completely. He was delighted 
with it. The walls were beautiful, and on them hung a few very 
choice prints. There was only one ornament in the room, a hand- 
some clock mounted in bronze; but the whole impression given was 
of the greatest comfort, combined with a certain severely clerical air, 
which was just what Mr. Manley wished. He expressed himself as 
much pleased. 

“But,” he said, “although I will not be so ungracious as to hint 
that so very handsome a present to the vicarage and to me is unnec- 
essary, still, I cannot but tell you that since 1 have arrived in Eng- 
land I have been left a good deal of money; therefore I think I 
ought to pay some proportion of the heavy expenses you have all 
incurred.” 

However, Mr. Leslie declared this would affront every one, and 
the Vicar sacrificed his own inclination. 

“ As to your money,” said Mr. Leslie, “/know how it would have 
been if we had not furnished your house. You would have gone 
into all the back slums, and provided every one with comforts, and 
furnished his or her house for him or her, and then you would have 
said, ‘ As all the money is spent, I will make the old furniture do 
until next year;’ and next year it would have been just the same.” 


168 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ You are mistaken,” said the Vicar, not caring to argue the point 
further. 

It was now time for him to preside at the tea for the poor peo- 
ple, which he did, and spoke a few kind w^ords to each one pres- 
ent. 

And then, as it was nearly eight, he prepared to go to the banquet, 
and would have walked thither had not a carriage come for him, 
and with a request that he would drive. It was not sent solely to 
do him honor, but to insure his not arriving until every one was there 
to receive him. But the Vicar had far too much sense of fitness to 
have intended arriving until eight o’clock. The room was quite 
full when he entered, with that easy grace which always character- 
ized him, and looking as serene as if he had never left them. A well- 
bred man never shows to better advantage than in facing a similar 
ordeal, a half-bred man never to worse. Lord Hilton came for- 
ward at once, saying: “We are all delighted to see you, Mr, Man- 
ley.” 

Captain Vincent next shook hands, and said, “I have the very 
greatest pleasure in welcoming you on your return.” 

Then came the mayor, putting out a broad, fat, and slightly moist 
hand, which he closed round the cool, white hand of the Vicar, say- 
ing, “Glad to see you again, sir — I tell you for the second time; and 
we are all sorry we were a bit ’asty before you left.” 

Mr. Manley smiled, and bowed slightly, thinking it best to ignore 
the unwelcome allusion altogether. 

But Admiral Hatton stood somewhat aloof, looking very uncom- 
fortable. To him the Vicar advanced, saying, in his kindest voice, 
“I trust, sir, that you, too, will shake hands with me.” 

“To be sure,” returned the Admiral, greatly relieved and grati- 
fied, “You are a thorough good fellow, Manley, and I hope we 
shall be as good friends as ever.” 

Then Mr. Fortescue advanced, and in a very few but well-chosen 
words expressed his satisfaction at seeing him. 

After him came every one, till the Vicar, though still preserving 
his kind expression, began to devoutly wish that he might wash his 
hands, or, at all events, his right hand. 

The serious business of the banquet then began ; and as he found 
himself the honored guest, and listened to the speeches made in his 
favor, he could not but think of that night when, in that self-same 
room, he had stood on the platform and faced his enemies. Where 
were his enemies now? Then, as he looked at the table appoint- 
ments— the brilliant silver, the glass, the flowers, the china, all of 
the best — he could not but recall the vision of that solitary man liv- 
ing in the bush, and think of what Ms table appointments had been, 
how disgusting Ms food. 

The brass band had performed during dinner, bringing more than 
one smile to the Vicar’s countenance, and causing Mr. Fortescue, 
who was enjoying the whole thing immensely, to remark that he 
had not had such a musical treat for many a long day. 

In acknowledging the honor done him, Mr. Manley said but a very 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


169 


few words. It was not that his former ready speech had forsaken 
him— it was that he felt, for every one’s sake, that the less said the 
better; and, in addition, he was greatly moved at all the kindness 
showered on him. 

“ I’m afraid his head will be turned after this. I never saw such 
a unanimous ovation given to any clergyman in my life,” said one 
gentleman; “it will be a great pity if he becomes spoiled in conse- 
quence.” 

But in all Newforth, in all the county, there was not a man who 
felt so humble in the depths of his heart as did the Vicar. To be 
overrated has anything but an exhilarating effect on some minds; he 
imagined that he was overrated. 

“If they could only know me as I am,” he thought, sadly, “ as I 
was ” — and his mind reverted to that terrible night in the bush — 
‘ ‘ and to think that such an one as I is considered worthy of so much 
praise and honor!” 

At eleven o’clock the banquet broke up. Now, at last, he was 
free to follow the wish of his heart, and see his church. He walked 
up and down the vicarage garden for a few moments in order to col- 
lect his thoughts. He watched the sea, bathed in calm, sweet moon- 
light; the distant shipping, looking dark against the light; and he 
said to himself, “ Why should any one require to think of more than 
this; ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. . . . 
And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, 
and the lesser light to rule the night: lie made the stars also.’ ” 

He looked at the steeple — the now finished and handsome steeple — 
which he could see plainly in the glorious harvest moonlight. His 
heart swelled within him as he noted how beautiful the church now 
looked — his church. And then he resolved that he would ever after 
give largely towards missions, and try to help, by every means in his 
power, those men who gave, not one year, but their lives, to such ar- 
duous, disheartening toil. 

He walked through the churchyard, and in passing by the graves 
observed that cross which Ethel had pointed out, bearing the inscrip- 
tion, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life;” but of Ethel he 
would not think now. The clock chimed half-past eleven when he 
entered the church; and then his heart became too full for utter- 
ance, as he walked up the aisle (for he had entered at the west door), 
when he saw the well-remembered pulpit, the beautiful chancel, the 
glorious window. He went to the altar-rails and knelt down, lean- 
ing his head on his hands, and there he remained until he heard the 
chimes, and the clock struck twelve. Then he rose and went home, 
his heart full of thankfulness and peace— the peace of God. 


170 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER L. 

Ethel’s return. 

The Hatton family were all agreed now that Ethel should come 
home. In the first place, on her own account; in the second, on 
theirs; in the third, in case, by any accident, matters might be set 
right between her and the Vicar, though on this point none of the 
family had much hope. He had been very friendly with them, and 
had asked, in an apparently unconcerned manner, how Miss Ethel was. 

Now, Ethel had implored her sister to give her the fullest news of 
the Vicar on his return, and she was specially to mention whether 
he said anything about her. This cool mention of her, which Miss 
Hatton thought it advisable to repeat, in order that inadmissible hope 
might not revive in her sister’s heart, was to Ethel absolutely crush- 
ing. Her love now seemed to overwhelm her ; she felt that she 
should like to throw herself at his feet, and beg him to forgive her, 
and love her again; but this she knew she could not do. But see 
him again she must and would, and was about to write and say she 
would like to return home, when, quite unexpectedly, her father ar- 
rived on the scene. 

She was in the underground dining-room, cutting bread-and-butter 
for the children’s tea; for they required as much waiting on as ever, 
and were far more exacting in their demands since they found she 
had not sufficient spirit to resist them. The room was comfortless, 
as usual; the furniture more worn; the carpet in a still further ad- 
vanced state of deca}’^, it being almost impossible to tread without 
being tripped up by a hole. The tablecloth was smeared with trea- 
cle, while the food and crockery- ware were much about the same as 
when she first arrived. 

She stood with her back to the window. Admiral Hatton, from 
the pavement, looked in. He noted the appearance of the room, and, 
catching sight of Ethel’s profile, saw how pale and thin she had 
grown. He saw the youngest child put her hand into the plate of 
bread-and-butter, and seize four pieces together. Ethel took three 
of them away, when the child put up her hand and gave her a slap 
on the face. 

The Admiral waited to see no more; he knocked at the door with 
a thundering noise, and, pushing past the servant, went into the 
apology for a drawing-room, where Mrs. Parker was sitting, in a 
towering rage. Without any preface he burst out, “And wiiat do 
you mean by treating my daughter in this way?” 

Then, going to the top of the kitchen-stairs, he roared out, “ Come 
up, Ethel, my girl; I’m here to see you.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


171 


She turned very white, and ran up stairs into his arms, and burst 
out crying. Her tears increased her father’s rage against his sister. 
As soon as he had kissed his daughter, he turned round again to 
Mrs. Parker, who was looking frightened and bewildered. 

“What’s the meaning of my coming here, and finding my daugh- 
ter treated like this?” he asked. 

“Like what?” said Mrs. Parker, feebly. “I am sure Ethel has 
had a very comfortable home here.” 

“ ‘thundered the Admiral; “a comfortable home? The 

daughter of a British admiral to be made a slave of and struck by the 
wretched children of a mean, miserable, pettifogging tradesman!” 

“I’m sure I wish the children to behave properly,” said Mrs. 
Parker, deprecatingly ; “ and you knew she came here to be useful.” 

“ Perhaps to be useful to you,'’ retorted the Admiral, “ but not to 
be useful to your dirty, disgusting little wretches of children.” 

“ Don’t say quite so much,” whispered Ethel, who was endeavor- 
ing to check her tears; “ you will make aunt ill.” 

“ I can’t help that,” he replied. “ Go up stairs at once, and pack 
up, Ethel; for I’ll not leave this house until I take you with me.” 

“Go home now?” said Ethel, beginning to cry again, for during 
the last few months she had been considerably overwrought. 

“ Dry your eyes, my girl, and go up-stairs to pack up at once,” 
he repeated. 

“ Are you going to take Ethel away?” asked Mrs. Parker, now 
seriously concerned. ‘ ‘ I don’t know how I can get on without 
her.” 

“You should have treated her better,” he replied; “and as I don’t 
feel at all anxious to remain in your company, I will go up-stairs 
and see her pack.” 

He called the servant and asked her to show him the way up, 
quite ignoring his nephew and nieces, who were clustered on the 
stairs, quarrelling at intervals. But when the bedroom was reached 
his wrath knew no bounds. 

“You to have slept in such a hole of a place as this!” he ex- 
claimed, and, without paying the slightest heed to the presence of 
the servant, commenced to abuse his sister without mercy. 

Ethel in vain endeavored to check him. 

“You know, father,” she said, gently, “how very poor aunt is; 
she couldn’t help the furniture being so wretched.” 

But now the servant-maid joined in. Many had been the small 
kindnesses Ethel had shown, many the small presents she had made 
her, and had at last quite won her heart by her gentle words. 

“ I’m sure, sir,” she exclaimed, “it’s just about time Miss Ethel 
should go, though I don’t know what we shall do without her. She 
has been that put upon by missus that, if you could only ’a known 
it, it would make your blood bile.” (Ethel sincerely hoped her 
father’s temperature would be raised no higher.) And then Jane en- 
tered into a very full and complete catalogue of Ethel’s woes — the 
latter in vain trying to silence her— enlarging on everything, until 
the Admiral looked as if he were going to have a fit of apoplexy. 


172 THE BACHELOR VlCAK OF NEWFORXH. 

“I have even seen her, by missus’s orders, try to brush up theset- 
tin’-room, sir, though I must say she did it uncommon bad, and all 
Miss Ethel says to her aggravations and orders was, ‘Yes,’ as mild 
as milk.” 

“Jane,” said Ethel, gravely, “ I request you to be silent.” 

“Well, I will, miss,” answered Jane, who had now said about as 
much as it was possible to condense into ten minutes in the way of 
grievances; “and I won’t stay in this blessed place, now you are go- 
ing.” 

“Here’s a sovereign for you, my girl,” said the Admiral; “and 
now cord and strap Miss Ethel’s trunks, and then fetch a cab, and 
we’ll be out of this before ten minutes are over.” 

When the cab arrived he would not see his sister, but walked 
straight out of the house. Ethel, however, went in and kissed her 
and the children, and said a few kind words. 

“ Ah,” said Jane, as they departed, “now you’ll find out the value 
of Miss Ethel, ma’am ; it’s a pity jmu couldn’t ’ave found it out 
afore.” 

But Mrs. Parker was too much subdued just now to reply. 

Ingoing to Victoria Station the, Admiral observed with what in- 
terest Ethel looked at all the great public buildings. 

“Why,” he said, good-humoredly, “any one would think you 
hadn’t seen them since you were in London.” 

“ Neither have I, father,” returned Ethel, quietly. “You know I 
went to nurse my aunt, not to enjoy m3^self.” 

“ Your aunt be — ” he was on the point of adding “hanged,” but 
checked himself, as he remembered, after all, how helpless his sis- 
ter was. He thought that after Gertrude was married, in November, 
he could afford to give Mrs. Parker some small sum a year. 

“ Did you never go anywhere?” he asked. 

“I went to church — when I could.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, ho ! so even that was too great a luxury to be allowed you ; 
it’s outrageous — it’s disgraceful.” 

As the train neared Newforth, Ethel’s heart beat fast. She caught 
sight of the spire, and of the vicarage behind the church, and, for the 
millionth time, wondered at her own folly in having lost faith in the 
Vicar. She wondered whether she should ever meet him except in 
church; and, if so, what he would say to her. But as the cab 
that brought them from the station drew up at their door she caught 
sight of his well-known form coming down the road. She opened 
the door of the cab herself, and flew into the house, shutting the 
dining-room door behind her, as if she feared she were pursued. 

Mrs. and Miss Hatton received her with astonishment and de- 
light. 

“But what is the matter, Ethel?” asked Miss Hatton. “You look 
like a ghost.” 

Meantime Admiral Hatton had also caught sight of Mr. Manley, 
and, entirely forgetting that he had ever been engaged to Ethel, he 
poured out to him the entire catalogue of her wrongs, delighted to 
find a silent listener. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


173 


The Vicar’s face became graver and graver as the Admiral pro- 
ceeded, the delicacy of feeling natural to him telling him that he 
ought to have been the last person to hear this story. 

“ I trust Miss Ethel’s health has not suffered,” he said, very cour- 
teously, but very gravely, and in the same tone that he would have 
employed if speaking of Mrs. Allen. 

And then it suddenly dawned on the Admiral that this man was at 
one time to have been Ethel’s husband, and he bade him “good- 
bye ” somewhat confusedly. 

“I have been telling Manley all about your treatment, Ethel,” he 
said, as he joined the others in the dining-room. 

“I think you might have spared me that," said Ethel, turning 
crimson, and going out of the room. 

“The child is ill; that’s what’s the matter,” said the Admiral. 
“Now, what on earth was there to take offence at in what I said?” 
and then he recommenced the tale of Ethel’s wrongs and hard- 
ships, to Mrs. Hatton’s unbounded indignation. 

The Vicar walked on, lost in thought. . It was one thing to say in 
the bush that he seldom thought of her, but quite another to say so 
in Newforth, where everything constantly reminded him of her, and 
of their former love. Even his window brought her to his recollec- 
tion, not with the love of old, but with a feeling which he tried hard 
should not be bitterness. 

Such a man as he never yet loved lightly, never forgot lightly. So 
now this account of the life she had been leading moved him more 
than he cared to show; but, as he had resolved in the train, so he 
now determined that he would act towards her in every respect as if 
she were any other young lady. And yet he was anxious to see her 
once again, although he was scarcely conscious of the wish. He 
found himself looking out of the vicarage windows, and wonder- 
ing whether she would go by; but, during the first few days of her 
home-coming Ethel did not go beyond the garden. She longed to 
see him, and yet dreaded to do so. 

Now, concerning these same windows there was a great talk 
made among the young ladies, as they overlooked the main road. 
Mrs. Leslie usually went to church alone in the afternoon, but on 
returning was often joined by some friend who had also been to 
the service. 

On one occasion Miss Allen, Miss Hatton, and Captain Worsley 
met her coming'from the church door. 

“You are going down the wrong way,” she said to Miss Allen; 
“ this is our nearest road home.” 

“ Oh,” returned Miss Allen, “I don’t like going that way; it takes 
you past the vicarage windows.” 

“ If I wanted to go past the vicarage windows one hundred and 
fifty times, it being nw most direct road, I should go,” said Mrs. 
Leslie. “ First of all, 1 haven’t the slightest idea whether the Vicar 
usually sits in the back or the front of the house, as he has a sit- 
ting-room in both; and if I did know I should not care; secondly, 
if I id go, I should be quite sure that he had a great many more 


174 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


tilings to do than to look at me ; and, thirdly, if it pleased him to 
look at the passers-by, why shouldn’t he do so?” 

“ Hear, hear,” said Captain Worsley ; "quite a sermon, Mrs. Leslie ” 

"It’s very well for you,” said Miss Allen; "you are married, so 
people can’t say anything; but after all the disgusting paragraphs 
about young ladies, in the papers, it makes us uncomfortable.” 

"I dare say it does,” returned Mrs. Leslie, laughing. "I really 
do feel for all you girls, but if you want to get your minds really 
from dwelling so much on him as they evidently do, work him up 
into a novel, and make three volumes of him. You will then look 
on him — except, of course, in church — as a mere abstraction, a 
species of anatomical study. ” 

Captain Worsley laughed heartily. 

"Or I will tell you what will be better still. Miss Allen,” he said. 
"Go down to a naval and military town, such as Portsmouth, and 
you will find there are such hosts of men that one vicar, more or 
less, won’t be of the slightest consequence.” 

" I beg your pardon, Harry,” said Miss Hatton; "when I was in 
Portsmouth there was a vicar in Southsea who was of the most tre- 
mendous importance to every one, and was most heartily liked. 
Why, you know perfectly well that you were there at the time, be- 
fore you went out to Africa, and were as jealous of him as you 
could possibly be, although I only spoke to him once in my life, just 
because I praised him. You used to say that you couldn’t bear' the 
sound of his name.” 

“I wasn’t engaged then; you used to snub me so awfully, you 
know; I am now, so I don’t care.” 

" And is that vicar there still?” asked Mrs. Leslie. 

" Yes,” replied Captain Worsley, looking highly amused; "but he 
is — married, alas!” 

"There is Mr. Manley now,” said Mrs. Leslie, "let us stop and 
speak to him.” 

Somewhat to her chagrin INIiss Hatton repeated the speech about 
the abstraction he would become. But he did not appear at all of- 
fended; he laughed and said he much preferred to be looked upon 
in the light of an abstraction than to be the subject of too much re- 
gard. 

Miss Allen suddenly shook hands and went away. 

"I wish you would not give those neat little hits, Mr. Manley,” 
said Miss Hatton; "because, although they are very telling, they 
are done so amiably, which makes them harder to bear. ” 

" What hit?” he asked, with a smile. "I merely said I did not 
wish to be the subject of too much regard, and I don't wish it, nei- 
ther I suppose does any one else. I made a general statement— that 
was all.” 

" Miss Allen took it personally.” 

Now, Miss Allen was hugely tall, red-haired, and freckled, and 
withal, very cross-looking. Although usually reticent, she occasion- 
ally came out with very snappish remarks, and was altogether no 
favorite with the Vicar. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


175 - 


“ I am sorry for Miss Allen, if so,” he replied. " I intended noth- 
ing personal to her. I looked on all this conversation as the reverse 
of serious.” 

I am so glad you can see a joke,” said Miss Hatton, “ which ;s 
more than Mr. Rowen could do.” 

“Poor Mr. Rowen!” said the Vicar, leaving them. 

He turned down a side road, and there, coming towards him, 
within a few feet, was — Ethel. 

At the sight of her pale, but now very beautiful face, he felt a 
great rush of feeling come over him, and he knew that it would be 
impossible for him to stop and speak a friendly and indifferent 
greeting, as he had intended. 

So he passed on, looking her full in the face very gravely, and 
bowing so low that she saw the whole of the lining of his hat. 

So this was the greeting she received from the man she loved bet- 
ter than all the world. The tears came into her eyes; she felt utterly 
heart-broken. If he had cut her, if he had nodded to her, if he had 
given her one smile such as he was wont to bestow on the poorest 
of his parishioners, it would have been, oh, so much better than this 
courteous, stately greeting. What could she do? She would not 
force hers'elf upon him, and speak to him against his will ; she could 
not send him any message; she could not write to him; there was 
nothing in her power. From the man who had held her in his arms 
as if he could not bear to let her go, she had received — a distant 
bow. 

But she had no idea of the conflicting emotions in his mind. He 
loved her still, he fully acknowledged this now; but with a very dif- 
ferent love to the trusting, perfect love of the old time. He loved 
her and — well, not despised her; that word would ill express the 
feeling in his mind— but while he loved her, he pitied her as one in 
whose affection there was no trust. As for making her his wife 
now, such an idea did not even occur to him. Marry a girl who 
had forsaken him dujing his worst trouble? Oh, no! 


CHAPTER LI. 

VAIN REGRET. 

The parish machinery was in full force, the Vicar’s firm hand was 
felt in every department. In vain did some of the ladies try to 
make themselves too prominent; in vain did the organist try to re- 
tain his privileges with regard to the hymns, and the choir to the 
music and chants; in vain did the verger, who had a little forgotten 
his respect, for a brief moment, try to give his opinion. With a 
smile, and a few determined words, which, withal, seemed to annoy 
no one, the Vicar showed them all that he was master, and intended 
to be master. Every one was ten times better pleased. In place of 
twenty chiefs, there was now but one. 


176 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTII. 


A new curate was appointed, a Mr. Chasemore; and as he was 
not only a very good man, but a married man, there was no ditB- 
culty with him and the ladies. But Mr. Manley did not give him a 
hundred a year; he gave him two hundred and fifty pounds a year, 
and many a fee that by rights belonged to the Vicar found its w^ay 
into the curate’s hands, on the plea of his extra trouble. They 
worked together most harmoniously; for Mr. Chasemore had the 
most thorough belief in, and admiration for, his Vicar. 

Mr. Manley had paid a short visit to Templemore, and thanked 
Mrs. Vincent most heartily for the peal of bells, and had a good 
laugh over their names, which he allowed were somewhat peculiar. 

“And what shall you call the others, Mr. Manley?” asked Mrs. 
Vincent. 

“ Keally I have not thought of it,” he replied. “ Perhaps some 
Australian name.” 

‘^Oh, please don’t do that,” she rejoined, promptly; “because, as 
my husband’s and my names are there with yours, we should not 
like to be mixed up with outlandish-sounding Australian places.” 

Had she given her real reason, it would have been her hope that 
Mr. Manley would one day marry, and call the remaining bells by 
his wife’s names. 

“You have the best right to name them,” he said; “why do you 
not do so?” 

“ Shall we agree that you are to do so before the year is over?” 

“As you please,” he replied, thinking that it was quite immate- 
rial to him by what names they were called. 

And here it may be remarked, in parenthesis, that before the year 
was over he had named them, and that the names that they bore 
were then by no means immaterial to him. 

About this time he received letters from Mr. Philpot and Mr. 
Groves, telling him they were in London. He at once wrote and 
gave them a cordial invitation, which they gladly accepted, coming 
down without delay. The Vicar made no change in his usual mode 
of life for their presence; he went about his work the same as usual. 
Sometimes of an evening he would ask them to sit with him in his 
study— an honor he seldom had been known to accord to any, save 
people who came on business. 

Now this same study was his delight. The church decorator and 
Mrs. Vincent between them had succeeded marvellously in pleasing 
him. Although, from conscientious scruples, he would not have 
spent money on giving himself aesthetic pleasure, still, now that it 
was provided for him, he greatly enjoyed it, and would have looked 
on himself as very ungracious had he professed to undervalue the 
attraction his pretty house now had for him. 

“You only want a wife to make the place perfect,” said Mr. 
Groves, who had been warm in his expressions of pleasure at every- 
thing he had seen. 

“ I think,” replied Mr. Manley, “ that I do not want a wife,” and 
a momentary expression of gravity came over his countenance. 

Ethel hb had not met once since their first rencontre. She scrupu- 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


177 


lously avoided him. She now sat in a seat at the extreme end of the 
church, accompanied by her sister and Captain Worsley, who always 
came over from Saturday to Monday. She thought the Vicar could 
not possibly see her ; she sat as far back as she could, and often cov- 
ered her face with her hand. Her grief seemed too heavy for her 
when she saw his grave, earnest face full of so much light and feel- 
ing. As often as not the tears would stand in her eyes during the_ 
entire service, sometimes run down her cheeks. 

“You must wear a veil in church, Ethel,” said her sister; “it 
looks so, to see you so often crying.” 

But to Ethel just then looks were nothing; there was only to her 
one person in church, and that was — the Vicar. As for parish 
work, she made no attempt at that; she knew that she could not 
face him. 

But one day, after showing Mr. Groves and Mr. Philpot the way 
to Fisherman’s Cove, Mr. Manley was slowly returning by the 
beach, and, on walking round one of the small indented bays, he 
came face to face with— Ethel. She was standing on the sand, her 
mind evidently far away from the visible scene, although the tide 
was tum^bling and splashing almost at her feet. But this time he 
did not bow and pass on. With a grave face he held out his hand, 
saying, “ How do you do — Miss Ethel?” 

The slight pause spoke volumes. “Miss Ethel!” Had it come 
to that? A vivid flood of crimson overspread her face, which de- 
parted, leaving her deadly pale; but she could find no words in 
which to reply. He appeared not to perceive her agitation ; he 
spoke a few words of inquiry after her father and mother, and, 
coldly averting his eyes, he then wished her good-bye, holding her 
hand as if he certainly did not mean it. 

That her case was hopeless she now fully realized, and after this 
she met him often ; but although he fully intended to be courteous 
and friendly to her, as he was to all the other j^oung ladies, he did 
not carry out his wishes. He could be, and was, polite — oh, so po- 
lite ; but he was always cold, always dignified, always unapproach- 
able. As she looked at him, she would think it almost an impossi- 
bility that she should ever have put her arms round his neck, have 
kissed him, have called him “ Phil.” This man appeared like some 
grand, but quite un-come-at-able being. He would gladly have 
avoided these meetings, but it was not possible that he should, and, 
knowing this, he had begun to look upon them as a necessary but 
painful duty. 


12 


178 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER LII. 

A SUBSTITUTE. 

Mrs. Leslie and Miss Hatton were on their way from the usual 
fortnightly working-party, which on this occasion had been held at 
Mrs, Chasemore’s, when they met young Mr. Allen. 

Now these working-parties were productive of real good, inas- 
much as, by the sale of their work, the ladies realized a considerable 
sum in the course of the year; but it cannot be said that they w^ere 
amusing, although it must be added that not one of the ladies went 
for the sake of amusement. The Vicar was not quite certain whether 
the ladies of Newforth had minds or not, judging by the nature of 
the conversatfon with which they, one and all, without exception, 
favored him; still, he was willing to give them the benefit of the 
doubt, and, in case it should be decided in their favor, he thought 
he would try and improve such intellect as they might possess. He 
accordingly signified his wish that the books chosen for reading at 
the working-party should be of a grave nature — historical works, or 
pamphlets on the questions of the day. It is quite possible that, had 
he been present, and read them himself, a fair amount of inter- 
est might have been excited in them; but, as it was, these books, 
often read far from impressively, were productive of a most depress- 
ing influence on the minds of the poor ladies. 

On this afternoon the work selected had been a little sort of blue- 
book affair, in favor of the Channel Tunnel, 

Now, Mrs. Leslie detested the idea of the Channel Tunnel, and 
had she not done so before, the prolonged reading would certainly 
have made her. She put down her work every five minutes, and 
yawned surreptitiously. Before the book was ended, she abhorred 
the Channel Tunnel. 

The reading began slowly, and gradually increased in pace as the 
welcome clatter of the cups was heard outside, for tea and cake 
were always served before the working-party broke up; and when 
the book was put down a perceptible sigh of relief went through 
the room. 

“I wonder how Mr. Manley would like to be made to listen to 
what he had previously read at home,” said Miss Allen; “/ have read 
every word of that before.” 

“ It does not the least matter if you have,” returned Miss Hatton; 
“if the Vicar says ‘Channel Tunnel,’ ‘Channel Tunnel’ it will be’ 
and we might as well make the best of it. I allow I would much 
rather hear something of Thackeray’s. 

“ You have lost your authority since Mr. Rowen went away,” said 
Miss Allen. ‘ ‘ No taking command of district meetings for you’now. ” 


THE BACHELOE VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


179 


“I am very glad to lose it,” said Miss Hatton, “and I vastly 
prefer that the Vicar should he the head, as, of course, he always 
ought to be.” 

It was after this meeting that Mr. Allen joined them. 

“Do you know,” he said, “ that there is going to be a meeting of 
the Young Men’s Christian Association in three days’ time? Are 
you going?” 

“Certainly not,” returned Miss Hatton. “I went on one occa- 
sion, and I have never forgotten it. Nothing would make me go 
to another. ” 

“lam sure that you will go to this one,” he returned, “ and prob- 
ably will bring Captain Worsley.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the Vicar is going to give the address himself, and de- 
tail his own experience in the bush.” 

“That quite alters the case,” said Miss Hatton. “Of course we 
will go.” 

“We will all go,” said Mrs. Leslie. 

The appointed evening came ; it was the day before that ar- 
ranged for the departure of Mr. Groves and Mr. Philpot, which 
Mr. Manley had fully taken into consideration. In place of empty 
benches, the room was crowded in every part; there was scarcely 
standing-room. 

The Vicar began his address with a smile, which gradually left 
his face as he described the sad and degraded condition of the 
heathen black tribe among whom his lot had been cast. His ex- 
pression became very sad as he, in graphic, stirring words, de- 
scribed how little he had been able to do for them, how little to ac- 
complish, but how sure he felt that more might be done with time 
and patience. He told them of the sort of food he had eaten, and 
the manner in which it had been prepared, neither softening nor 
exaggerating any detail ; of the toil he had endured, and how 
hard he had felt it to continue his labor underneath the burning 
sun. 

Interesting in the extreme as the lecture was, a slight feeling of 
astonishment began to pervade the audience. Never within their 
memory had the Vicar been known to so much as allude to any 
sacrifice he had made, no matter of what nature. What was the 
meaning of this? And now, on continuing his narration, he told 
them of how the blacks had burned his hut, of his journey through 
the thirty miles of bush land, of his illness, and of how nearly he 
had died. 

Then he spoke of the manner in which he had been found, of the 
attention, the very great kindness, he had received from total stran- 

f ers. “And these," he continued, pointing to Mr. Groves and Mr. 

hilpot, who at once wished the earth would open and swallow 
them up — “these were the Good Samaritans who brought me on 
my way, and tended and cared for me. To them I owe my life, 
and a large debt of gratitude.” (Great applause, prolonged ap- 
plause, from the Christian Young Men.) 


180 


THE BACHELOK VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


Mr. Philpot and Mr. Groves looked round, but, seeing no way of 
escape open, thought better of it, and remained in their chairs. 

“But it is not for the purpose of thanking these gentlemen that 
I have called this meeting, and addressed you personally. Why 
have I told you of the hard life a missionary in the bush must nec- 
essarily endure?” 

No answer w^as received to this question. Mr. Leslie, who had 
supported the Vicar, said under his ^eath that he supposed it was 
to throw cold water on missions. 

The Vicar looked round, his face glowing. 

“I have told you all this, my dear friends, because I want to 
know ‘ Who will go out in my place f’ ” 

Not a soul in the room was prepared for this finish to the highly 
interesting story. 

“lam quite sure that I won’t,” said Mr. Leslie, in an aside. 

Now, the intention the Vicar had long had was this. He was not 
a man who was too proud to acknowledge it, if he had made a mis- 
take; and he was now of opinion that ]\Ir. Yorke had been, to a cer- 
tain extent, riglit, in what he had said as to the aborigines not being 
like children. He had come to the conclusion that perhaps a man 
whose organization was not so fine, nor his perceptions so delicate, 
woidd be better fitted to undertake the life, for the reason that 
many minor points regarding the customs of the natives, which 
would be exceedingly distressing to a highly-refined man, would 
perhaps fail to wound a lower and coarser nature. 

Therefore he was quite prepared to pay the entire cost of fitting 
out and training one of these young men of lower birth, who per- 
haps might volunteer to go out, as he said, in his 'place. For it 
still seemed to him, in some way, as if he himself owed a debt tow- 
ards missions, as if he had in some way failed in his duty by quit- 
ting his work there; and this he thought would be the best and 
wisest manner of discharging his obligations. 

Some conversation took place among the young men. It seemed 
as if none of them would come forward, when, to the unbounded 
surprise of every one in the room, including the Vicar, young Mr. 
Allen came forward, and said that he had been so much impressed 
by all he had heard, that he had quite made up his mind that he 
would go. 

His mother exclaimed in horror, and there would probably have 
ensued a scene which would have caused some amusement, had not 
Mr. Manley interposed, 

“We will talk about this to-morrow, Mr. Allen, if you please,” 
he said, quietly. “Will you be good enough to come to the vicar- 
age at ten o’clock to-morrow morning?” And then, turning to a 
gentleman near him, he requested him, before the meeting broke 
up, to give the pre-arranged statement of the accounts. 

It may well be believed that poor Mrs. Allen was horrified and 
grieved. That her only and darling son should go out to a place 
such as they had heard described was not to be borne. She argued, 
she entreated, she implored, she threatened, but her son turned a 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 


181 


deaf ear. The fact was, the young man had a great deal of good in 
him, and he was beginning to see that the life he was now leading 
was being the ruin of him. When Mr. Manley had first come to 
Newforth he had taken a great interest in all the young men, both 
gentlemen and others, knowing full well that their temptations are 
far greater than those of young women, and, not only so, but that, 
as a rule, their inclinations do not take a religious turn nearly so 
often as women’s. 

But when Mr. Bowen had been Vicar he had had no influence 
whatever with most of the young men. They had so much ad- 
mired Mr. Manley’s vigor and pluck and determination and strength, 
so cordially liked his genial words, that they ended by accepting all 
his good advice without question, and were considerably led by 
him. Therefore, when they found that Mr. Bowen could take part 
in neither swimming nor athletic game of any description, they 
ended, most unjustly, by putting him down as a milk-and-water 
sort of man, without a particle of backbone, whose good advice 
was not even worth listening to. 

There was no doubt that Mr. Bowen was not fairly judged. Had 
he come immediately after the old Vicar, Mr. Smith, he would have 
been properly estimated, and probably much liked; but, coming afi 
ter Mr. Manley, he was always compared with the latter, and al- 
ways tb his own disparagement. Mr. Manley had gone over to see 
him in his country parish, and had found him comfortable enough. 
He was actually his own master, and had only seen one lady since 
he had been in his parish ! 

After this digression, we must return to young Mr. Allen. At 
ten o’clock punctually he presented himself at the vicarage. The 
Vicar had been seeing Mr. Philpot and Mr. Groves otf, and had only 
just returne(? from the station. 

“I am glad to see you,” he said, genially; “and now that you 
have slept on your resolution, do you still hold to it?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, heartily. “The only thing 
against it is that my mother declares I shall kill her.” 

“I should not wish you to grieve your mother,” Mr. Manley re- 
plied, gravely. “Perhaps it would be right that you should give 
up your own desire.” 

“But I assure you, sir,” said Mr. Allen, with vehemence, “that 
if I don’t go somewhere, or do something, I shall soon go to the 
dogs.” 

“ That is not the spirit in which to undertake so important a 
work as mission work,” replied the Vicar, still looking very 
grave. 

‘ ‘ That is not the only reason, Mr. Manley, ” said young Allen, ‘ ‘ I 
have always felt a great interest in those sort of fellows — niggers 
and natives of all sorts. I know I am of no use in England— I 
haven’t much brains, and couldn’t pass a competitive examination 
to save my life ; but I think 1 might do them some good. Anyhow, 
I would try. I am very strong, and I like roughing it, and, as I 
should only go out as a lay helper,! could return if I didn’t like it.” 


182 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“There is a great deal of reason in what you say,” replied Mr. 
Manley; “but I am sorry that your mother should be pained. At 
present I scarcely know how to advise you; I must take time to 
consider.” 

“ But there is still another reason,” urged the young man, redden- 
ing slightly, “why I can’t and won’t stay in Newforth.” 

“What IS that?” 

“Ethel Hatton refused me yesterday,” he answered, sheepishly. 

This was very unexpected news to the Vicar, who, on his part, 
scarcely felt his usual composure. But he concealed any appear- 
ance of undue interest, and said he had not been aware that Mr. 
Allen had been paying her attention. 

“ It was in this way,” said the young man, who had lost his shy- 
ness now, and seemed pleased to speak on the subject. “I was in 
love with her long before she was engaged to you. ” 

Mr. Manley thought this remark was in somewhat questionable 
taste, but he said nothing. 

“Of course,” continued Mr. Allen, “as soon as I heard that you 
liked her, I knew that it was all up with me, so I held my tongue. 
Then, when your engagement was broken off, I still said nothing, 
because it wasn’t in reason that, after having liked you, she should 
look at me, and I let her go off to London without saying a word. 
When she came back, looking so white and sad, I would have given 
anything to have told her I loved her, and would like to take care 
of "her; but I thought 3^011 would come forward, and so it would be 
of no use.” 

The Vicar set his mouth somewhat sternly. 

“So,” said Mr. Allen, “I tried to make the best of it, although 
I saw every day how much more miserable she was looking. Why, 
do you know, Mr. Manley, that sometimes I have seen her cry half 
the service.” 

“I do not know it. And, pra3’^, what took you to the bottom of 
the church, Mr. Allen?” he added, with more sharpness than was at 
all necessary. 

“I went so that I could sit near her,” replied the young man, 
humbly. 

“I beg your pardon,” said the Vicar, quietly. “Go on with 
your story.” 

“Well, yesterday, I was going along the road, and I thought I 
saw her in front of me. I wasn’t at all sure, so I did not walk any 
faster, but just strolled along for another mile or so. Suddenly she 
disappeared. I was near the wood, so I thought she must have 
gone in there. I didn’t see anything of her, and was just going out 
again, when in the distance I caught sight of her white dress, down 
one of the narrow paths. I went to the spot, and there she was, 
sitting down, and sobbing as if her heart would break.” 

“ And what then?” asked the Vicar, sternly. 

“Oh,” returned the 3'oung man, simply, “I just went on my 
knees to her, and begged and implored her to be my wife.” 

Again the Vicar thought this very questionable taste; he knew 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


188 


that he could not so have intruded on the grief of a girl who did 
not love him; but again he held his peace. 

“But,” said Mr. Allen, “she would not have anything to say to 
me. She left off crying, yet all she would say to me was that she 
was very sorry, but that if I asked her for a year, she would not 
marry me. And I know she meant it. ” 

There was a slight pause; the Vicar turned seawards, and appar- 
ently was watching some lishing-boats in the distance. 

Young Mr. Allen hesitated slightly, and then, with the courage 
born of desperation, said, “Mr. Manley, she is miserable about you ; 
why don’t you ask her again to marry you?” 

The Vicar turned round and looked at him — looked until Mr, 
Allen felt not only crushed, but absolutely and completely annihilated. 

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. 

But still the Vicar looked, until Mr. Allen exclaimed, in despair, 
“I can’t stand this; I must go.” 

Seeing he was prepared to make a run for the gate, Mr. Manley 
Kirned away, and then, with a smile, said, “I think we will not 
bring my name into the conversation just yet. Suppose we return 
to the subject of your going abroad.” 

Long and patiently did he explain to the young man the difficul- 
ties he would have to encounter; but Mr. Allen was nothing daunted. 
He said he had plenty of money to spend, and if he went to Lon- 
don now he should go to rack and rum; he would far rather spend 
his money in doing some good. So at last it was decided that he 
should go, and the Vicar gave him every information as to how to 
set about it. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

AN UNEXPECTED RENCONTRE. 

It may well be imagined that Mr. Manley had not gone into the 
history of his bush life without recalling vividly to his own mind 
the memory of that terrible night spent under the eucalyptus. His 
humility had never deserted him ; still he thought he should like to 
put some test as to the feelings of others. 

“If 1, their spiritual head, have thus failed, how often may they 
not have done so?” he said to himself. 

So he revolved the matter in his mind, and at last thought that he 
would, by direct questioning, ascertain on what grounds some of 
the members of his congregation’s faith rested. Therefore he se- 
lected a Mrs. Gray, a person whom he considered, as far as he could 
judge, one of the least religious among his people. He called on 
her, and, after some unimportant conversation, said, “Mrs. Gray, 
have you ever been troubled with any doubts as to the absolute 
truth of the Christian religion, as we teach it in the Church of 
England?” 


184 


THE BACHELOE VICAR OF NEWFOETH. 


“Doubts?” she replied, in amazement. “Certainly not; I have 
never doubted anything.” 

Now the Vicar did not consider at the time that the citadel that 
has never been assailed cannot well fall. He went home saying to 
himself, “She whom I have judged has stood firmer than I,” and 
something of his old feeling came over him. But not for long. ^ He 
knew that it was not expedient that he should remember those things 
that were behind. 

The news that he had heard from Mr. Allen greatly disturbed 
him. He thought of Ethel sitting sobbing alone, and he remembered 
the time when, if she had been in grief, he would have been the 
first to comfort her; now, he could comfort every one in the parish 
before her. 

With regard to Mr. Allen, he was now fully of opinion that the 
young man was right to go. He called himself on Mrs. Allen, and 
endeavored to make her see it in the same light, and his words had 
some weight; she promised she would try to think better of the 
scheme. He was to defray his own expenses entirely; on this point 
the Vicar felt no further responsibility, knowing that the whole of his 
income might be well spent in his own parish. He much preferred 
that it should be so; it had only been a sense of duty which had 
prompted him to pay the expenses of some one else. 

And here it may as well be recorded that, being of opinion that 
what is to be done is best done quickly, he coincided with Mr. Allen 
in his view that he should depart without any delay; and within 
two days’ time the young man had set out for London, whence he 
departed shortly for Australia. Let us hope he effected some good. 

The Vicar felt greatly troubled. The events of the past year had 
set their mark on him. It was quite true, as his sister had said, that 
it was earthly joy he wanted. His voice was still beautiful, but it 
was sterner than of old. He laughed but seldom; he seemed to 
have lost his old buoyancy of spirits. At times his whole counte- 
nance would light up with pleasure; but these were but momentary 
gleams, which soon departed, leaving his face grave, though kind. 

The day after that on which Mr. Allen had spoken to him he 
walked out on the high-road towards Fisherman’s Cove. He had 
no purpose in selecting that route ; his choice was quite unpremedi- 
tated. He was thinking of the Hatton family, of the courtesy and 
deference the old Admiral had shown him since his return, the kind- 
ness extended to him by Mrs. Hatton, the invariable warmth of 
greeting from Gertrude, whose marriage would now take place 
shortly; and then he thought of Ethel — thought of her until he 
reached the Cove. 

He paid his usual visits, thinking, as he did so, of the first day on 
which he had gone thither. There were the same boats drawn up 
on the beach, the crab and lobster baskets scattered about, the fisher- 
men in their bright-colored jerseys, the waves dancing and flashing 
in the sunlight; but he — was he the same man who had leaped over 
the rocks in the gladness of his heart? He knew that he was not. 

He thought of his many visits to Mrs. Stevens’s house, when his 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


185 


sister and her erring husband had lived there. He thought of the 
evil they had wrought against him; but he felt no bitterness against 
them, he had forgiven them from his heart. He had forgiven every 
one. On his first arrival he had made a point of going round to every 
household where they had misjudged him, both rich and poor, and 
extending to them the hand of friendship. He had especially done 
so to the man whom he had been on the point of knocking down — the 
man who had told him that the pot should not call the kettle black — 
and this very man had made him a genuine and spontaneous apology. 

In all the world there was only one person towards whom he felt 
any bitterness, and she was the girl he loved. 

After listening to Mrs. Stevens’s voluble and thrice-told tale as to 
the finding of the packet of papers, he ascended the clififs, and, in- 
stead of turning into the road, took the cliif path away from New- 
forth. It was very narrow, running almost at the edge of the clitf ; 
on the other side were fields of corn and' crops, divided from the 
path by clumps of trees, hedges, or small bowlders. It was a matter 
of some difficulty in certain parts for two people to pass one another. 
The Vicar looked at the sea, and, cautiously approacliing the edge of 
the cliff, looked over on to the rocks below — the seaweed-covered 
brown rocks. He took up a large stone, and threw it into the sea; he 
could hear the splash distinctly, and see the widening circle it made. 

After a time he turned his face homewards. 

But who was this coming towards him? A young lady, whose 
head was bent; her eyes were on the ground. He could not mistake 
that graceful figure ; he could have picked it out from amqng a thou- 
sand. He set his determined mouth, and prepared to pass her with 
a friendly word, when suddenly she raised her eyes, and saw him 
directly in front of her. Possibility of escape there was none. On 
her left hand there were the sharp, jagged rocks below; a false step 
in that direction would precipitate her upon them. On her right 
hand, between her and the fields, there was a cluster of rocks and 
bowlders as high as her head. Her heart beat until she thought 
she could not walk another step. Every vestige of color went out 
of her face; but still the Vicar advanced, with his firm tread and up- 
right carriage. Her feet seemed to give way under her, and then, 
without knowing how it happened, her foot stumbled against a stone. 
She tried to save herself, and fell against the rocks on her right 
hand, giving her chest a heavy blow. Her previous agitation, com- 
bined with the shock, were too much for her ; she fainted, and 
would have fallen, had not the Vicar rushed forward and caught 
her in his strong arms. He placed her tenderly on the ground, her 
head on his knee; and as he looked into her white, unconscious, but 
most beautiful face, a great rush of love came over him. Was it 
possible she could be dead? He bent his head over her, and pressed 
his lips to hers, saying, with his whole heart in his voice, “My dar- 
ling! Oh, my darling r 

ile continued looking into her face until he saw her eyelids move, 
when he placed her head gently on the ground, taking off his own 
hat and placing it underneath her hair. In a moment or two she 


186 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


had recovered her consciousness completely, and then he said to her, 
very gently and kindly, but still very distantly, “Are you better. 
Miss Ethel?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, faintly. “ I should like to get up.” 

“ 1 will help you,” he returned. 

He put his ai’m round her shoulders, and lifted her gently on to 
her feet. Her returning color now flooded her face; she could not 
look at him. 

“ Do you think you can walk home?” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” she replied, earnestly; “lam sure I can.” 

“That is well,” he returned; “for in this place it would be some- 
what difiicult to obtain assistance.” 

“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. 

He smiled. 

“I am not quite so inhuman as to leave you alone in this spot; 
should you feel giddy you might fall over the cliffs. I shall take 
you home.” 

Her heart gave a sudden leap as he held out his arm. She took 
it ; but oh, it was not like taking his arm in former times. She was 
obliged to walk very close beside him, the path was so very narrow ; 
but he managed to walk just a step in advance, and there seemed 
quite an interval between them. However narrow the path might 
have been in former times, they would somehow have walked side 
by side. He spoke a few friendly words, but his voice sounded 
cold, and he never once looked at her. 

As soon as they reached the high-road, she told him that she was 
quite well, and could go home alone; but, although he suffered her 
to let go his arm, he refused to leave her until she was in the lane 
leading to her father’s house, when, with a very courteous and state- 
ly bow, he went away. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

REFLECTION. 

On coming down to breakfast the next morning the Vicar found 
a letter in Ethel’s well-known handwriting. He took it up with some 
slight agitation, for the events of the preceding day had in some de- 
gree shaken him. His hand lingered over the envelope before 
opening it; he tried to feel no expectation of pleasure in the con- 
tents. The letter ran thus : 

“My dear Mr. Manley,— I do not know how to begin to wTite 
to you ; but after your goodness to me yesterday I cannot but beg 
you, with all my heart, to forgive me for what is past, and to assure 
you that I have always felt deep sorrow for my distrust of you. I 
hope you will tell me that you have forgiven me. Believe me to be, 
“Your sincere friend, Ethel Hatton.” 


THE l^ACIIELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


187 


He put down the letter, and pondered over it. It was evident 
that she had not been entirely unconscious yesterday, but had heard 
the words he had uttered in bending over her. How else should 
she have written him this letter? 

She had asked him to forgive her. In this case what would for- 
giveness mean? It would mean nothing less than that he should 
again ask her to be his wife — again take her to his arms, and his 
heart. No, he could not do it. He could not forget their parting in 
the woods — his appeal to her, and her reply. He seemed again to 
hear her words, “I can't, Phil; I can't. You would be my clergy- 
man as well as m}-^ lover, and my faith in you would be gone.” Of 
all his bitter experience of the past, no one sentence had stung him 
as had this. Her faith in him had gone, and, though now restored 
for a time, it might go again. 

He would write and tell her he had naught but kindness in his 
heart towards her, perhaps; but as to making any further overture 
towards her, that he would not do. And then he asked himself 
if down in the bottom of his heart he had quite forgiven her, and he 
decided at length that he had not. 

He put the letter in his pocket, making no attempt to answer 
it that day. He felt restless. He wandered into the church, 
and out of it again; he paced his garden; he neglected his corre- 
spondence. .He knew he could not settle down just then to his or- 
dinary work, the letter in his pocket was absorbing all his thoughts. 
He called his dog and started for a long ramble by the seashore, 
leaping over the rocks, and throwing stones into the water mechani- 
cally. After a time he left the shore, and struck across the cliffs 
into the woods. Underneath the deepest shadow of the trees he lay 
down, and remained lost in deepest thought. As heretofore, he saw 
around him bracken and moss and freshest undergrowth, interspersed 
with tiny wild-flowers. A glade opened before him ; on every side 
were tall oaks and elms, and large trees of mountain-ash. Through 
their branches he could discern, in the distance, the blue sea. He 
took off his hat and placed one hand beneath his head, closing his 
eyes ; but he was not desirous of sleeping. 

Over and over again every circumstance of his courtship presented 
itself to his mind; every circumstance, too, of his exile — that exile 
which could have been so well borne had she been with him. No, 
he could not forgive her. He could love her, and did love her; but 
it was not with the love of the old days; it was with a pitying af- 
fection, as to one who was weak. 

He could not marry her now, he would not marry her. The wife 
who should be to him a tower of strength, when he needed mental 
comfort, would not be realized or found in her; therefore he would 
never marry. 

A lonely rook cawed over his head, sailing away to his distant 
rookery; the birds twittered and chirped on the boughs of the trees 
around him; a timid rabbit ran almost across his feet. He noted 
all these things and smiled. He was an intense lover of nature in 
all her forms ; he had the keenest power of appreciating all the varied 
beauties she displayed. 


188 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


He called liis dog, and looked into his eyes. “ You haven’t for- 
saken me, old fellow,” he said; “you never did forsake me.” 

Finding by his watch that it was getting late — for in his unusual 
preoccupation he had taken no heed of the time — he rose and put 
on his hat, shaking off the leaves and pieces of twigs that had fallen 
on him. His heart was very sad as he returned to the seashore and 
walked homewards with a quick step. The water in the rocky 
pools showed clear and green, it eddied round the rocks; the pebbles 
shone; the sea sparkled, blue and bright. But the loveliness of the 
day was taken no heed of by the Vicar; his heart was too sore. He 
took the usual five -o’clock service, and went home immediately, 
shutting himself up in his study. He had noted that Ethel was not 
in church. He spent the evening in reading, but his thoughts per- 
petually wandered ; he could not fix them on his subject. 

Towards nine o’clock he again went into the church, and stood 
looking at the east window* — that window which he had shown her 
before every one. Its beauty attracted him, as it always did; his 
thoughts for a few moments became absorbed in the subjects. The 
sun had set, but sufficient light remained to throw out the central 
figures; and then the Vicar gave a deep sigh and walked home again. 
No, he could not forgive her, as forgiveness really meant. 

At eleven he went up to his room, and, putting out his light, sat at 
the open window. The moonlight was on the sea, shedding one 
broad path of silver across it ; the shipping was bathed in sub- 
dued light. The trees in the garden waved their solemn “good- 
night;” their boughs almost looked in at his windows. He remem- 
bered the moonlight nights abroad — those nights when he had lain 
dow*n beneath the bare canopy of heaven and contemplated the 
stars in all their wmndrous majesty of beauty. And then he remem- 
bered again that night when he too had failed— had, as he thought, 
erred, had been weak ; and a great flood of sorrow came over him. 
Should he sit in judgment on one who had been weak also? And 
then it seemed to him a Christlike thing to forgive — to forgive from 
the lowest depths of his heart. 

He put aside all his pride, all his bitterness, all his just resent- 
ment, and determined that he would go to Ethel on the morrow^ 
and would ask her to be his wife; more than this, that he would 
love and cherish her, and ever hide from her the fact that she was 
no longer in his eyes what she once had been. 


CHAPTER LV. 

RECONCILIATION. 

To Ethel the knowledge that the Vicar still retained his love for 
her had been strange and marvellous; had been productive of joy 
too deep for utterance. From the moment of his return until now 
he had never addressed one word to her except such as formal cour- 
tesy demanded, and she remembered the misery she had endured 


THE li ACHE LOR VICAR OF NEWFORTU. 


189 


in thinking that his affections might be transferred to some other 
woman. But now his words rang in her ears — those words spoken 
when, for aught he knew, she might have been dead — “My darling ! 
Oh, my darling !” Would he have spoken them had his love been a 
thing of the past? She knew that he would not. The fact was al- 
most too incredible ; she felt in ecstasy. But then she remembered 
how, the moment her consciousness "had returned, he had with- 
drawn from her, and had paid her only such attention as kindness 
and humanity demanded. It was evident she must make her 
penitence manifest; she was only too thankful to have the oppor- 
tunity. 

She knew that to write to him was, in effect, to ask him to return 
to her; but, if he loved her, why should she not do so? She posted 
her letter that evening herself — for the accident had left no trace — 
and lay awake all night thinking of the morrow. Surely he would 
come, or, if he did not come, he would write. She dressed herself 
in her prettiest dress, and sat in the house all day; but he did not 
come, and he did not write. A great weight of heaviness came over 
her. He had not forgiven her; he would not forgive her. Then, 
remembering how, in the days that were gone by, he had always 
been ready and anxious to stretch out a helping hand to those who 
had injured him, how cheerfully he had ignored their offences, how 
readily forgiven them, she marvelled that to her, out of all the world, 
he should be hard, and the tears fell fast down her cheeks. 

“ What are you crying about?” asked her sister, briskly. 

“I’m not crying,” said Ethel, checking her tears, “only — only — ” 

“Only you expected the Vicar to come and see how you were — 
I know what that dress means — and ask you to marr}'- him all over 
again. Well, my dear. I’m sorry for you, but he won’t do it; and 
you can’t expect it.” 

Ethel made no reply; the precious words spoken by Mr. Manley 
had not passed her lips. She sighed, believing now that her sister’s 
words were true — that he would not come, he would not forgive. 
Her pain was almost too great. She sat at her window, watching 
the moonlight, as, unknown to her, the Vicar was doing also, and 
cried as if her heart would break. But on the morrow, at ten o’clock, 
a note was brought her. It was very short, and there was neither 
formal beginning nor ending. “I hope to be with you at twelve 
o’clock to-day.” ' 

Her breath came in gasps; she sat down, a great joy in her eyes. 

“What’s that about?” asked Miss Hatton, who was in the dining- 
room with her sister. Ethel gave her the note. 

“The Vicar coming at twelve to see you! All I can say is that it 
is extremely kind of him.” 

And then, her mind not having recovered its just balance, Ethel 
confided to her sister the words that he had spoken when she had 
fainted. 

Miss Hatton looked thoughtful for a moment, then spoke briskly, 
“ Go up-stairs at once, Ethel, and make yourself look as nice as you 
possibly can. ” 


190 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


And then a consultation as to dress arose. Ethel possessed a very- 
pretty and most becoming white morning-dress, very suitable for 
this warm, delicious day; but, as she justly alleged, were she to put 
it on it would look as if she were an expectant bride, or something 
of that sort. 

Her sister saw the force of her objection. 

“You have that pretty white-and-blue cotton ; you look as well in 
that as in anything; go and put it on at once; it fits you beautifully, 
and is a really well-made dress.” 

“But, oh, Gertrude,” said Ethel, pausing at the door, “suppose 
we are building our hopes on nothing; suppose he shouldn’t care 
about me now !” 

“Go and make yourself nice,” returned Miss Hatton, not deigning 
to notice the last sentence. “If you look pretty, half— -no, three 
fourths — no, nine tenths of the battle is gained.” 

But Ethel knew that nine tenths of the battle would not be gained 
with the Vicar. 

“1 will tell you what I will do,” said her sister. “I will make 
the drawing-room look as nice as I possibly can, and then I will take 
mother out for a walk. Father is out, and will not be home to 
lunch.” 

The drawing-room chintz was rather faded ; the carpet somewhat 
worn; the furniture, though solid, old-fashioned. But Miss Hatton 
so skilfully adorned the room with fiowers that they became the only 
noticeable feature. Flowers were everywhere — on the mantelpiece, 
the tables, the brackets, and a huge bowl of roses brightened the 
hall. The windows opened on to the garden; the fresh, soft morn- 
ing breeze entered ; the trees on the lawn looked cool and green. 

“I think it looks very well,” said Miss Hatton, pausing at the door 
before going up to get ready. 

But to sit in the drawing-room awaiting the Vicar was more 
than Ethel could do. She remained in her bedroom. 

“Let me look at you before I go,” said her sister, scrutinizing her 
earnestly. “You are a little too pale, but you are very pretty.” 

As the clock struck twelve the Vicar knocked at the door, Ethel 
had heard his step up the gravel path, but she was afraid to go down 
until summoned. Her heart beat as she opened the door, and saw 
him standing at the end of the long room ; but he had not heard her 
quiet footsteps; he was looking out of the window. 

Suddenly he turned, and saw her standing there, afraid to ap- 
proach, afraid to attract his attention ; and in that moment he could 
not but remember how, in the former time, it had been her wont to 
run to him and throw her arms round his neck. 

“ How do you do?” he said, quietly, and smiled. His cheeks were 
still hollow, but his smile had now regained its old brightness. “I 
hope you are none the worse for your accident.” 

“No,” she answered, remaining standing; neither did she ask him 
to sit down. 

He turned his head, and again looked out of the window. 

“How well your garden is looking,” he said, cheerfully. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


191 


She made no reply. He looked at her, and saw that her bosom 
was heaving, and that her face was very white. He knew it would 
be cruel to keep her longer in suspense. 

“Ethel,” he said, quietly, “1 have come to ask you again to be 
my wife;” and he took her lifeless, cold hand in his. 

A startled look came into her eyes ; he had not asked her thus be- 
fore, with this quiet friendliness; then his cheek had glowed, his eyes 
had sparkled. 

“Do you love me?” she asked, piteously. 

“ I do love you.” 

In a moment she had sunk down on her knees at his feet. 

‘ ‘ I am not worthy to be your wife, ” she said, brokenly. ‘ ‘ For- 
give me, Phil, for all that has taken place; oh, forgive me.” 

“ I do forgive you,” he answered, calmly. “ You must not kneel 
to me.” 

“But I must,” she answered, wildly; “for I am not worthy to 
be your wife. But, if you will have me, I will try to atone to you, 
Phil. My whole life shall be one long atonement. I cannot express 
to you what I feel; how I should like, now, ta put my head on the 
ground, when I think of all that is past, that you might put your foot 
upon it.” 

He raised her forcibly. 

“I want a wife who will love me,” he said, gravely. “I do not 
desire a wife whose remorse is such that her life, as you express it, 
will be ‘one long atonement.’ If that is to be so, I will not marry 
you. I wish you to love me.” 

She stood facing him ; then her face lit up. 

“Love you?” she said, feelingly; “1 love you, Phil, with all my 
heart. I know that my love has not been one that has endured all 
things, has hoped all things, has believed all things. But it shall 
be so in future; it shall, indeed. I feel very humble before you, 
Phil—” 

“Not so,” he interposed; “ you must not, indeed.” 

“But, although I have erred, I have sulfered; I have suffered 
keenly, Phil. Do you think I did not suffer when I parted from 
you? Do you think I did not suffer through all that weary time 
when I was divided from you — when I mourned my wrong judg- 
ment of you, when I repented from my soul? Do you think I did 
not suffer when I knew that you were wandering amid foreign lands, 
enduring every hardship, for Christ’s sake? But, most of all, have 
I not suffered since your return, when the knowledge of all I lost cut 
me to the heart? Have I not suffered in seeing your averted glances, 
in hearing your coldly-polite words? In the former time I experi- 
enced that jealousy which was cruel as the grave; but I will never 
experience it again, Phil; I will not, indeed. For I know now that 
Love is stronger than Death. I love you, Phil; I love you.” 

As she stood before him the golden sunlight gave a glory to her 
hair, to her lovely eyes. Her face, perfect as to feature, lovely as to 
expression, spoke to him even more loudly than her words. His 
faith in her came back, his love was restored. He knew that she 


192 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


spoke the truth — that her love would never fail again, that her faith 
in him would never waver, that he should have a wife in heart and 
soul and mind and truth. No longer did he need the forgiveness of 
the Christian man and the clergyman, no longer did he require to 
school himself. Joy and gladness and happiness had returned — 
never, so far as his love was concerned, to leave him. 

Once again his cheek glowed, his eyes shone. He held out his 
arms, saying, “ Come to me, my well-beloved,” and folded her to his 
heart. 

And, as she remained in his embrace, she said, softly, 

“ ‘ I will grow round him in his place, 

Grow, live, die looking on his face — 

Die, dying clasped in his embrace.’ ” 


f- 


THE END. 


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